"Myself!"
She bows her face upon her hands, and convulsive shudders shake her form. She sits thus so long that O'Meara becomes restless, but Mr. Wedron sits calm, serene, expectant.
By and by she lifts her head, and her eyes shine with the glint of blue steel.
"You are right, sir," she says in a low, steady voice. "Icantell more than is known. It may not benefit Doctor Heath; I do not see how it can. Nevertheless, all that I can tell you shall hear, and I only ask that you will respect such portions of my story as are not needed in evidence. As for Mr. O'Meara, I know I can trust him. And I believe, sir, that I can rely upon you."
Mr. Wedron bows gravely.
"I will begin by saying that Mr. Vandyck, if he has withheld anything concerning Doctor Heath, has acted honorably in so doing. He was bound by a promise, from which I shall at once release him."
In obedience to a sign from Mr. Wedron, O'Meara prepares to write.
"You have said, sir," addressing Mr. Wedron, "that I may be able to say something which, if withheld, would complicate this case. What do you wish to hear?"
"Every thing, Miss Wardour, every thing. All that you can tell concerning your acquaintance with Clifford Heath—all that you have seen and know concerning John Burrill; all that you can recall of the sayings and doings of the Lamottes. And remember, the things that may seem unimportant or irrelevant to you, may be the very items that we lack to complete what may be a chain of strong evidence in favor of the accused. Allow me to question you from time to time, and, if I seem possessed of too much information concerning your private affairs, do not be too greatly astonished, but rest assured that all my researches have been made to serve another, not to gratify myself."
"Where shall I begin, sir?"
"Begin where the first shadow of complication fell; begin at the first word or deed of Doctor Heath's that struck you as being in any way strange or peculiar."
She flushes hotly and begins her story.
She describes her first impression of Doctor Heath, touching lightly upon their acquaintance previous to the time of the robbery at Wardour. Then she describes, very minutely, the first call made by Doctor Heath, after that affair.
"One moment, Miss Wardour, you told Doctor Heath all that you knew concerning the robbery."
"I did, sir;" coloring rosily.
"And you exhibited to him the vial of chloroform and the piece of cambric?"
"I did."
"At this point you were interrupted by callers, and Doctor Heath left rather abruptly?"
"Precisely, sir."
"Who were these callers?"
"Mr. Lamotte and his son."
"Had you any reason for thinking that Doctor Heath purposely avoided a meeting with these gentlemen?"
"Not at that time;" flushing slightly.
"Go on, Miss Wardour."
She resumes her story, telling all that she can remember of the call, of Frank's return, and of Sybil's letter.
"About this letter, I would rather not speak, Mr. Wedron; it can not affect the case."
"Itdoesaffect the case," he replies quickly. "Pray omit no details just here."
She resumes: telling the story of that long day, of Clifford Heath's second visit, and of the news of Sybil Lamotte's flight.
She tells how, at sunset, she opened the strange letter, and how, bewildered and startled out of herself, she put it into Clifford Heath's hands, and called upon him to advise her.
Almost word for word she repeats his comments, and then she hesitates.
"Go on," says Mr. Wedron, impatiently; "what happened next?"
Next she tells of the sudden appearance of the strange detective; and here O'Meara seems very much interested, and Mr. Wedron very little.
He does not interrupt her, nor display much interest, until she reaches the point in her narrative when she discovers the loss of Sybil's letter.
"Well!" he cries, as she hesitates once more. "Go on! go on! about that letter."
"Gentlemen," says Constance, contritely, "here, if I could, I would spare myself. When Doctor Heath came, to return the bottle borrowed by the detective, I accused him of taking the letter."
"What!" starting violently; "you suspected him?"
"I insulted him."
"And he—"
"He resented the insult in the only way possible to a gentleman. He accepted it in silence, and turned his back upon me."
"Ah! and since that time?"
"Since that time I have received no intimation that Doctor Heath is aware of my existence."
"Ah-h-h!" ejaculates Mr. Wedron; "and you have not found the letter?"
"No. Its fate remains a mystery."
"Do you still believe that Doctor Heath could account for its disappearance, if he would?"
"On sober second thought, I could see no motive for taking the letter. I was hasty in my accusation. I came to that decision long ago."
"You were deeply grieved over themesallianceof Miss Lamotte?"
"She was my dearest friend."
"Was?" inquiringly.
Constance pales slightly, but does not correct herself.
"Miss Lamotte's strange marriage has been since explained, I believe?"
"No, sir!not to my satisfaction."
"What! Was it not to save a scapegrace brother?"
"Stop, sir! That scapegrace brother is the one of all that family most worthy your respect and mine. You wish me to tell you of the family; let me begin with Evan."
Beginning where she had dropped her story, Constance goes on. She outlines the visits of the two detectives; she tells how Frank Lamotte received the news of his sister's flight.
Then she paints in glowing, enthusiastic language, the interview with Evan in the garden. She pictures his grief, his rage, his plea that she will stand fast as his sister's friend and champion. She repeats his odd language; describes his sudden change of manner; his declaration that he will find a reason for Sybil's conduct, that shall shield Sybil, and be acceptable to all.
Then she tells how the rumor that Sybil had sacrificed herself for Evan's sake grew and spread, and how the boy had sanctioned the report. How he had come to her the second time to claim her promise, and announce the time for its fulfillment.
"To-day," she says, with moist eyes, "Evan Lamotte lies on a drunkard's bed; liquor has been his curse. Morally he is weaker than water; but he has, under all that weakness, the elements that go to make a hero. All that he had, he sacrificed for his sister. Degraded by drink as he was, he could still feel his superiority to the man Burrill; yet, for Sybil's sake, to relieve her of his brutal presence, Evan became his companion, and passed long hours in the society that he loathed."
"Ah!" ejaculates Mr. Wedron; "ah-h-h!" then he closes his lips, and Constance resumes.
She tells next how she became weary of the search for the Wardour diamonds; how she sought to withdraw private detective Belknap; and how that individual had endeavored to implicate Doctor Heath, and had finally accused him; how she had temporized, and sent for officer Bathurst; and how, during the three days of waiting, she had sent Ray Vandyck to watch over Clifford Heath. She finishes her story without interruption, carrying it up to the very day of the murder. Then she pauses, dreading further questioning.
But Mr. Wedron asks no questions, and makes no comment. He fidgets in his chair, and seems anxious to end the interview.
"Thank you, Miss Wardour," he says, rising briskly, "you have been an invaluable witness; and I feel like telling you, that—thanks to you, I hope soon to put my hand upon the guilty party, and open the prison doors for Heath."
She utters a low cry.
"My God! What have I said!" she cries wildly. "Listen, sir; Clifford Heath must, and shall, be free; but—you must never drag to justice the true culprit; younever shall!"
She is on her feet facing Mr. Wedron, a look of startled defiance in her eyes.
He is gazing at her with the look of a man who has discovered a secret. Suddenly he comes close beside her, and says, in low, significant tones:
"Let us understand each other; one of two must suffer for this crime. Shall it be Clifford Heath, the innocent, or—Frank Lamotte?"
She reels and clutches wildly at a chair for support.
"Frank Lamotte!" she gasps, "Frank, Oh! No! No! It must not be him! Oh! You do not understand; you can not."
She pauses, affrighted and gasping. Then her lips close suddenly, and she struggles fiercely to regain her composure. After a little she turns to Mr. O'Meara, saying:
"You have heard me say that Mr. Bathurst, the detective, and friend of Doctor Heath, was, not long since, in W——; he may be here still; I do not know. But he must be found; he is the only man who can do whatmustbe done. For I repeat, Doctor Heath must be saved, and the true criminal mustnotbe punished. My entire fortune is at your command; find this detective, for my hands are tied; and hemust, heMUST, find a way to save both guilty and innocent."
"This is getting too deep for me, Wedron," says O'Meara, when the door has closed behind Constance. "What does it lead up to? For I take it your tactics mean something."
Mr. Wedron laughs a low, mellow laugh.
"Things are shaping themselves to my liking," he says, rubbing his hands briskly. "We are almost done floundering, O'Meara. Thanks to Miss Wardour, I know where to put my hand when the right time comes."
"I don't understand."
"You will very soon. Now hear a prophecy: Before to-morrow night, Clifford Heath will send for you, and lay before you a plan for his defence. He will manifest a sudden desire to live."
Late that night a man is walking slowly up and down the little footpath that leads from the highway, just opposite Mapleton, down to the river and close past that pretty, white boat house belonging to the Lamotte domain.
He is very patient, very tranquil in his movements, and quite unconscious that, crouched in the shadow, not far away, a small figure notes his every action.
Presently a second form emerges from the gloom that hangs over the gates of Mapleton, and comes down toward the river. Just beside the boat house it pauses and waits the man's approach.
The new comer is a woman. The night is not so dark but that her form is distinctly visible to the hidden watcher.
"Well," says the man, coming close beside her, "I am here—madam."
"Yes," whispers the woman. "Have you—" she hesitates.
"Accomplished my task?" he finishes the sentence. "Have you not proof up yonder that the work is done?"
The woman trembles from head to foot, and draws farther away.
"I am only waiting to receive what is now due me," the man resumes. "You need have no fears as to the future; like Abraham, you have been provided with a lamb for the sacrifice."
Again a shudder shakes the form of the woman, but she does not speak.
"I must trouble you to do me a favor, Mrs. Burrill," the man goes on. "It is necessary that I should see the honorable Mr. Lamotte. So, if you will be so good as to admit me to Mapleton to-night, under cover of this darkness, and contrive an interview without disturbing the other inmates, you will greatly oblige me; but first, my two thousand dollars, if you please."
With a sudden movement the woman flings back the cloak that has been drawn close about her face, and strikes with her hand upon the timbers of the boat house.
There is a crackling sound, a flash of light, and then the slow blaze of a parlor match.
By its light they gaze upon each other, and then the man mutters a curse.
"Miss Wardour!"
"Mr. Belknap, it is I."
There is a moment's silence, and then she speaks again:
"You are disappointed, Mr. Belknap; you expected to meet another, who would pay you your price for—you know what. You will not see that other one; she is hovering between life and death, and her delirious ravings have revealed you in your true character. You may wonder how I have dared thus to brave an assassin, a blackmailer. I am not reckless. If I do not return in ten minutes, safe and sound, the boat house will be speedily searched and you, Mr. Belknap, will be hunted as you may have hunted others. Not long since you made terms with me, you attempted coercion, I might say blackmail; to-night, it is in my power to bridle your tongue, and I tell you, that, unless you leave W—— at once, you will find yourself a resident here against your will. Consider your business in W—— at an end. This is not a safe place for you."
With the last words on her lips, she turns and speeds swiftly back toward Mapleton, and Jerry Belknap, private detective, stands transfixed, gazing at the spot from which she has fled, and muttering curses not good to hear.
He makes no attempt to follow her. He recognizes the fact that he is baffled, and, for the time at least, defeated. Grinding out curses as he goes, he turns his steps toward W——.
Then, from out the shadows of the boat house, a small bundle uncoils itself, stands erect, and then moves forward as if in pursuit.
But, something else rises up from the ground, directly in the path of this small shadow; a long, slender body displays itself, and a voice whispers close to the ears of the smaller watcher:
"Remain here, George, and keep a close eye on the house. I will look afterhim."
Then the shadows separate; the taller one follows in the wake of the disconsolate detective.
The other, scaling the park palings like a cat, vanishes in the darkness that surrounds Mapleton.
The reflections of Jerry Belknap, private detective, as he goes, with moody brow, and tightly compressed lips, across the pretty river bridge, and back toward his hotel, are far from pleasant.
He is a shrewd man, and has engineered many a knotty case to a successful issue, thereby covering himself with glory. This was in the past, however; in the days when he had been regularly attached to a strong and reliable detective agency.
For tact, energy, ambition, he had no peer; but one day his career had been nipped in the bud.
A young man, equally talented, and far more honorable, had caused his overthrow; and yet had saved him from the worst that might have befallen him. And, Jerry Belknap, had stepped down from an honorable position, and, determined to make his power, experience, and acknowledged abilities, serve him as the means of supplying his somewhat extravagant needs, had resolved himself into a "private detective," and betaken himself to "ways that are dark."
"There's something at the bottom of this business that I don't understand," mused he as he paced onward; little thinking how soon he is to be enlightened on this and sundry other subjects. "I never felt more sanguine of bringing a crooked operation to a successful termination, and I never yet made such an abject failure. I shall make it my business to find out, and at once, what is this power behind the throne. So, according to Miss Wardour, may Satan fly away with her, I am not to approach the Lamotte's, I am to lose my reward, I am to retire from the field like a whipped cur. Miss Wardour, we shall see about that."
"Call me for the early train going west," he says to the night clerk, on reaching the hotel; "let me see, what is the hour?"
"The western train leaves very early, sir—at four twenty. Then you won't be here to witness Burrill's funeral? It will call everybody out. The circumstances attending the man's life and death will make it an event for W——."
"It's an 'event' that won't interest me. If I have been rightly informed, the man is better, placed in his coffin, than he ever was in his boots. I shall leave my baggage here—all but a small valise. I expect to return to W—— soon. If anything occurs to change my plans, I will telegraph you and have it forwarded."
At this moment the door of the office opens and closes noisily, and a man comes rather unsteadily toward them. It is Smith, the book-peddler, and evidently much intoxicated.
"Hallo, Smith," says the night clerk, jocosely, as Mr. Belknap turns away, "you seem to have rheumatism, and I suspect you find more fun than business in W——."
"Town ain't much on literature," retorts Mr. Smith, amiably, "but it's the devil and all for draw poker. I've raked in a pot, and I'm going on to the next pious town, so
'If you are waking, call me early.'
'If you are waking, call me early.'
Old top, I'm going west."
Early on the following morning, there was unusual stir about Mapleton. John Burrill was to be buried that day, and the sad funeral preparations were going on. People were moving about, making the bustle the more noticeable by their visible efforts to step softly, and by the low monotonous hum of their voices.
Up stairs, the usual quiet reigned.
Sybil was sleeping under the influence of powerful opiates, administered to insure her against the possibility of being overheard in her ravings, or of waking to a realization of the events taking place below stairs.
Evan, too, had been quieted by the use of brandy and morphine, and Mrs. Lamotte kept watch at his bedside, while Constance, in Sybil's chamber, maintained a similar vigil. Neither of the two watchers manifested any interest in the funeral preparations, nor did they feel any.
"I shall not be present at the burial," Mrs. Lamotte had said to her husband. "Sybil's illness and Evan's will furnish sufficient excuse, and—nothing constrains me to do honor to John Burrillnow."
Mr. Lamotte opened his lips to remonstrate, but catching a look upon the face of his wife that he had learned to its fullest meaning, he closed them again and went grimly below stairs, and, through all the day previous to the departure of the funeral cortege, Jasper Lamotte was the only member of that aristocratic family who was visible to the curious gaze of the strangers who attended upon the burial preparations.
Early in the forenoon an unexpected delegation arrived at the entrance of Mapleton.
First, came Doctor Benoit, driving alone in his time-honored gig, the only vehicle he had been seen to enter within the memory of W——.
Close behind him, a carriage containing four gentlemen, all manifestly persons of more than ordinary importance, Mr. O'Meara, in fact, his colleague of the New York Bar, and two elderly, self-possessed strangers, evidently city men.
They desired a few words with Mr. Lamotte, and that gentleman, after some hesitation and no little concern as to the nature of their business at such a time, presented himself before them, looking the personification of subdued sorrow and haughty reserve.
Mr. O'Meara acted as spokesman for the party.
"Mr. Lamotte," he began, with profound politeness and marked coldness of manner and speech, "I should apologize for our intrusion at such a time, were it not that our errand is one of gravest importance and can not be put off. Allow me to introduce to you Mr. Wedron, Doctor Gaylor and Professor Harrington, all of New York."
Mr. Lamotte recognized the strangers with haughty courtesy, and silently awaited disclosures.
"Mr. Wedron and myself, as the representatives and counsel of Doctor Heath, have summoned from the city these two gentlemen, whom you must know by reputation, and we desire that they be allowed to examine the body of Mr. Burrill, in order to ascertain if the wounds upon the body were actually made by the knife found with it."
The countenance of Mr. Lamotte darkened perceptibly.
"It seems to me," he said, with a touch of sarcasm in his voice, "that this is an unwarrantable and useless proceeding—doubly so at this late hour."
"Nevertheless, it is a necessary one," broke in Mr. Wedron, crisply. "It is presumable that you can have no personal enmity against Doctor Heath, sir; therefore you can have no reason for opposing measures instigated by justice. The examination will be a brief one."
The resolute tone of his voice, no less than his words, brought Jasper Lamotte to his senses.
"Certainly, I have no wish to oppose the ends of justice," he said, in a tone which, in spite of himself, was most ungracious. "Such an investigation is naturally distasteful to me. Nevertheless, you may proceed, gentlemen, but I should not like the ladies of my household to discover what is going on. They are sufficiently nervous already. If you will excuse me for a moment, I will go up and request them to remain in their rooms for the present. After that, you are at liberty to proceed."
They all seat themselves gravely, and Mr. Lamotte, taking this as a quiet acquiescence, goes out, and softly but swiftly up the broad stairs; not to the rooms occupied by the ladies, however, but straight on to Frank's room, where that young man has remained in solitude, ever since his unusually early breakfast hour.
"Frank," he says, entering quietly and closing the door with great care. "Frank, we have a delegation of doctors below stairs."
"A delegation of doctors?" Frank repeats, parrot-like.
"Precisely; they want to examine the body."
Frank comes slowly to his feet.
"To examine the body!" he repeats again. "In Heaven's name,why?"
"To ascertain, by examining the wounds on the body, if the knife found with it, is the knife that killed."
A sickly hue overspreads Frank Lamotte's face, and he sits weakly down in the chair, from which he has just risen, saying never a word.
"Frank," says Jasper Lamotte, eyeing his son sharply. "Do you see any reason why this investigation should not take place; supposing that it were yet in our power to hinder it?"
A silence that lasts many seconds, then:
"It isnotin our power to hinder it," says Frank, in a hollow voice; "neither would it be policy. Let the play go on," and he turns his face away with a weary gesture.
For a moment, Jasper Lamotte stands gazing at his son; a puzzled look on his face; then he turns and goes out as softly as he came.
"Gentlemen," he says, re-entering the library, with the same subdued manner, "you are at liberty to proceed with your examination, and, if I may suggest, it is as well to lose no time. The funeral takes place at two o'clock."
They arise simultaneously, and without more words, follow Jasper Lamotte to the room of death.
At the door, Mr. Wedron halts.
"I will remain on the balcony," he says to Mr. O'Meara, but sufficiently loud to be heard by all the rest, "I never could endure the sight of a corpse." And he turns abruptly, and goes out through the open doorway; taking up a position on the broad piazza, and turning his gaze toward the river.
Jasper Lamotte is less sensitive, however; he enters with the others, and stands beside O'Meara, while the physicians do their work.
"At least," he thinks, "I'll know what they are about, and what their verdict is."
But in this he is disappointed. They have brought with them a surgeon's knife; the precise counterpart of the one now in possession of the prosecution, and of the same manufacture.
One by one they examine, they compare, they probe, and all in silence. Then they turn toward O'Meara.
"I believe we have finished," says Professor Harrington.
"And the result?" asks Jasper Lamotte, eagerly, in spite of himself.
"That," replies Mr. O'Meara, with elaboratenonchalance, "will be made known at the trial. Mr. Lamotte, we trust that you will pardon this most necessary intrusion, and we wish you a very good morning."
The examination has been a very brief affair; it is just ten o'clock when the four unwelcome guests drive away.
Doctor Benoit does not accompany them; he goes up-stairs to visit his patients.
Jasper Lamotte asks him no questions. He knows that Doctor Benoit is a man of honor and that he will keep his professional secrets. So he goes sulkily back to his library.
Two hours later a rough, uncouth looking man appears at the servants' entrance, and asks to see Mr. Lamotte.
"I'm one of his workmen," he says, very gravely, "and I want to see him particular."
Jasper Lamotte is in no mood for receiving visitors, but he is, just now, in a position where he can not, with safety, follow the dictates of his haughty nature.
He is filled with suspicion; surrounded by a mystery he can not fathom; and, a man who begs for an audience at such an hour, must have an extraordinary errand. Reasoning thus, he says, crustily:
"Show the fellow here."
A moment later the man shuffles into the room. Mr. Lamotte glances up, and his brow darkens ominously.
"Brooks!" he exclaims. "What the mischief—" he checks himself, then adds, ungraciously: "What doyouwant?"
"Mr. Lamotte, I beg your pardon, sir," says the man, a trifle thickly. "I came back to W—— last night, and heard of the awful things, as has happened here. Now, I always liked Burrill, in spite of his weakness, forIain't the man to criticise such failin's. I've been down among the factory people, and I've heard them talk; and, thinks I to myself, there's some things as Mr. Lamotte ought to know. You've always paid me my wages, sir; and treated me fair; and I believe you've treated all the hands the same; but—there'ssomepeople as must always have their fling at every body, as the Lord has seen fit to set over their heads; and—there's some of them sort in Mill avenue."
During this harangue the countenance of Jasper Lamotte has grown less supercilious, but not less curious.
"Explain yourself, Brooks," he says, quite graciously, and with some inward uneasiness. "I do not comprehend your meaning."
"If I had come to your servants and asked to see the body of my old chum," begins Brooks, with a knowing look, and drawing near Mr. Lamotte, "they would have ordered me off, and shut the door in my face; so I just asked to seeyouon particular business. But if you was to ring your bell, by and by, and order one of your servants to take me in to look at the corpse, I could explain to them what an old friend I was, and that would settle the curiosity business."
"Doesn't it strike you, Brooks, that you don't cut much of a figure, to appear as the friend of my son-in-law?" questions Mr. Lamotte, looking some disfavor at theensemblebefore him.
Brooks buries his chin in his bosom, in order to survey his soiled linen; looks down at his dingy boots; runs his fingers through his shock of coarse red hair.
"I ain't much of a feller to look at; but that's because I ain't been as lucky as Burrill was; though I ain't anxious to change places with him now. I'll fix the friendship business to suit you, sir, and be proper respectful about it. Say Burrill was my boss, or something of that sort. I shouldn't like to have certain parties know myrealbusiness here, and Ishouldlike to take a look at Burrill on my own account."
There is a ring of sarcasm in the first words of this speech, and Mr. Lamotte reflects that he has not yet learned his errand.
"Very good, Brooks, you shall see the body, and manage the rest as delicately as possible, please. You know we want no ill spoken of the dead. Now, then, your real business, for," consulting his watch, "time presses."
"I know it does, sir, and I won't waste any words. You see, sir, beggin' your pardon for mentionin' of it, Burrill has got another wife, a divorced one, I mean, livin' down at the avenue. She works in Story's mill now, but she used to work in yours before—"
"Yes, yes," impatiently. "Get on faster, Brooks."
"Well, you see, sir, since her husband—I mean sinceMr. Burrillwas killed, she has been cuttin' up rough, and lettin' out a many things as you wouldn't like to have get all over W——. She ain't afraid of him no more (he did beat her monstrous), and when she gets to takin' on, she lets out things that would sound bad about your son-in-law. If it was a common chap like me, it wouldn't matter; but I thinks to myself, now, Brooks, this 'ere woman who can't hold her tongue will be hauled up as a witness for Doctor Heath. I ain't got nothing against Doctor Heath, but I says, it will be awful humblin' to Mr. Lamotte's pride, and powerful hard on his pretty daughter; so I jest come to say that if Nance Burrill could be got to go away, quiet like, before the other parties could get their hands on her, why, it would be a good thing, Mr. Lamotte."
Considering the tender solicitude he feels for "Mr. Lamotte's pride," he has given it some pretty hard knocks, but he looks quite innocent, and incapable of any sinister intent, and Mr. Lamotte, after gnawing his lip viciously for a moment and favoring hisvis-à-viswith a sharp glance of suspicion, says, with sudden condescension:
"Brooks, I've always been inclined to believe you a pretty good sort of fellow, but really this singular disinterestedness almost makes me suspect your motive. Stop," as Brooks elevates his head and suddenly faces toward the door. "Hear me out. Brooks, don't be ashamed to confess it. Did the thought of a reward stimulate you to do me this—favor?"
"If it's a favor, sir, you take it very uppish," retorts Brooks sulkily, and edging slowly toward the door. "I'm a poor man, sir, but I ain't bad enough to come to you with a trumped-up story, and if I happened to think that in case you found things as I tell you, you might reward me by and by with a ten-dollar note, why, I don't think there is much harm in that. I liked you and your ways, and wanted to do you a good turn, and if I wanted to do myself a good turn, too, why, there's nater in that."
"There's nature in that, true enough. Brooks, I wish I had time to hear all the particulars of this affair."
"I don't want to give them, sir," replies the man, hastily. "No more would it be fair for me to do so. I've got some fair friends among the Mill avenue folks. I've come back to W——, because I couldn't get on anywhere else; and I've come back broke. The factory folks will trust me to a night's lodging, when their betters wouldn't. I've told you enough to open your eyes, sir; and you can look into the thing for yourself."
To "look into the thing" for himself, is precisely what Jasper Lamotte is not inclined to do; so he says, with growing convictions, and increasing friendliness of manner:
"At least, Brooks, you can give me an idea of the nature of the stories this woman will tell, if brought into court?"
"The Lord knows what she won't tell, sir; she blows hot, and blows cold. One minute she tells how he was a fairly good husband, until he got into the hands of some city gang, while they lived in New York; and next she raves over all his misdeeds, tells how he was compelled to quit England, or be jugged up; how he forced her into divorcing him; how he bragged over the strong influence he had over you and all your family; how he came to her house time and again, after he was married to your gal; and how he promised her 'pots of old Lamotte's money;' them's her words, sir, 'pots of old Lamotte's money, and heaps of diamonds, for the sake of old times,' when he was drunk enough to be good natured; and how he beat her, and I can testify to that, when he was a little drunker."
"Brooks," says Mr. Lamotte, springing a last trap; "do you supposeyoucould manage this business of getting away the woman, if I paid you well, and gave you a bribe for her?"
"No, sir. I couldn't do it. I am so well known about Mill avenue; it won't do for a poor broke up devil to turn up flush all at once. I don't want nothing to do with the affair. I've done all I can do."
Mr. Lamotte slowly draws forth his wallet, and slowly opens it.
"Brooks, here is twenty-five dollars; I've not much money by me; I'll look into this matter, and do more for you after we get quiet again. Meantime, you can have the first vacancy at the factory; I'll see to that at once."
"And I'll try and be sober, sir, and ready for it. Now, then, I've been here a good many minutes; you'd better let me take a look at the corpse, and be off."
"If you please, Mr. Lamotte," said that gentleman's coachman, appearing before his master, less than an hour before the time appointed for the moving of the funeral cortege, and looking much confused. "If you please, sir, I've had a misfortune with my hand, sir; at least, my wrist; it's sort of sprained, and I most fear I can't handle the reins proper, for the horses is mighty full of life, bein' so little used of late."
"Well, well," broke in Mr. Lamotte. "I suppose you can get a man to fill your place?"
The man's countenance brightened at once.
"Oh, yes, sir; I've the very man right on hand. A friend of mine, and a master one with horses."
"Let him take your place then, and see that every thing is in proper order."
"It's all right," said the coachman, returning to the stables, and addressing a man who leaned against the loose box, where two blooded carriage horses were undergoing the currying process. "It's all right; you can drive the horses."
"Cap'n you're a good fellow," said the man, enthusiastically, "and here's your ten dollars. It's a favor I'll never forget, mind, for many's the day I've driven the beauties, before Squire McInnis went up, and we all had to go."
"That was a big failure," replied the coachman, knowingly. "You just see that the horses are done off all right, won't you? I must look after the carriage."
"It was lucky for me that I happened to know the history of these horses," mused Jerry Belknap, for he it was who leaned confidingly over to stroke the sleek sides of one of the splendid bays, and who had bribed Mr. Lamotte's coachman with a ten dollar bill. "If I drive the Lamottes, I'm sure of a hearing, and no audience; at the worst if they should take in a third party, but they won't, I can find a way to make myself and my wants known." And he sauntered across to the carriage house and critically inspected the splendid landau that was being rolled out upon the gravel.
He had returned to W—— on foot, from a near railway station, reaching the town within five hours from the time he left it.
During this time, however, his personal appearance had undergone a marked change. He was rubicund, and more youthful of countenance; shabbily smart in dress; excessively "horsey," and somewhat loud in manner.
During his intercourse with the Lamottes he had learned, from Frank, that their blooded bays had once been the property of a wealthy and prominent citizen of New York, who having failed, after the modern fashion, had given Jasper Lamotte the first bid for the valuable span. Given thus much, the rest was easy. Representing himself as a former coachman of this bankrupt New Yorker, he had told his little story. He was looking about him for a place in which to open a "small, but neat" livery stable, had wandered into W—— that morning, and having considerable cash about him, all his savings in fact, he had not cared to tempt robbers, by appearing too "high toned."
Of course he had heard at once of the murder, and then remembered that Lamotte was the name of the gentleman who had bought his favorite horses from his former master.
"I never pulled reins over a span equal to 'em," he said, with much pathos. "I never had the same liking for any other pair of critters; they was the apple of my eye, and I'd give just ten dollars to draw reins over 'em once more—even to a funeral."
His little ruse was successful; the bait was instantly swallowed, and Jerry Belknap glanced maliciously up at the closely curtained chamber windows, and muttered, as he began to saunter slowly up and down before the stable door:
"Miss Wardour, you won't find it so easy to outwit an old detective, even with the odds in your favor."
Just as the horses were being led out from the stable, a quiet-looking young man, with a somewhat rustic air, came into the yard, and approached the group near the carriage house.
"Who comes here?" asked the disguised Belknap, in a low tone, addressing the coachman.
"More than I know," replied that functionary. Then laying down a halter, just removed from the head of one of the pawing, restless horses, he turned toward the new comer, saying, patronizingly:
"Well, my man, can we do anything for you?"
The stranger appeared somewhat abashed.
"I hope I ain't in the way, gentlemen," he said, respectfully; "I came from Wardour with a message for Miss Constance. It's from the old lady, and as I see the carriages are coming and the hearse, I just thought I'd wait till the funeral was gone before I intruded."
"Oh!" said the coachman, more graciously. "Well, you won't have long to wait, then; the time's about up, and Mr. Lamotte is never behind time." Then he turned to Mr. Belknap.
"You must keep a close eye over the off one," he said; "he's full of Cain; and I say, what a lucky thing it is that your clothes are dark, and that Mrs. Lamotte won't let us wear full liveries."
"Why, yes, it's very lucky, that's so; just throw over those reins, will you. Don't be uneasy in your mind about that horse; I'll drive 'em safe enough; just you tell me when to start."
Ten minutes later, all that remained of John Burrill was borne out in its costly casket and placed in the splendid hearse at the door.
Just as he was about to cross his own threshold, Jasper Lamotte was confronted by a young man who pressed into his hand a slip of paper, and whispered in his ear:
"Read it at once, sir; it's of vital importanceto you."
Stifling an exclamation, Jasper Lamotte unfolded and glanced at the slip of paper. It contained these words:
The man who will drive your carriage is a cursed New York detective, who has bribed your coachman.Don't give him the opportunity he hopes to gain for watching and listening to yourself and son.The bearer of this can be trusted.Belknap.
The man who will drive your carriage is a cursed New York detective, who has bribed your coachman.
Don't give him the opportunity he hopes to gain for watching and listening to yourself and son.
The bearer of this can be trusted.Belknap.
By the time he had mastered the meaning of the note, the hearse had moved forward and the pall-bearers were taking their places.
Then the Lamotte carriage came into view. Mr. Lamotte placed the note in the hand of his son, who stood close beside him, and descended the steps, a stern look on his face.
"My friend, come down off that box," he said to the self-satisfied substitute procured him by his coachman.
The man on the box stared down at him in amazement.
"But, sir," he began.
"I want no words from you, sir; you can't drive my horses. Come down instantly."
The discomfited Belknap writhed in his seat, and looked about him helplessly.
Before were the pall-bearers, looking back from their open vehicle, and noting the scene; on the steps, and within easy hearing distance, were gathered the small knot of gentlemen, who, for courtesy's sake, or for policy's sake, had gathered to do honor to Mr. Lamotte, rather than to the poor rosewood shrouded thing that had never a mourner.
He could not explain; he could not make himself known.
"I will have you thrown off that box, sir; if you hesitate ten seconds longer," exclaimed Mr. Lamotte, impatiently, at the same time moving away and beckoning to the driver of the next carriage.
Fate was against him, and muttering curses, "not loud but deep," Jerry Belknap began to clamber reluctantly down.
Seeing this, Mr. Lamotte turned toward the bearer of the mischievous note, who had withdrawn a few paces from the group near the carriage, and beckoned him to approach.
He came forward promptly.
"Can you drive, my man?"
"Yes, sir," respectfully.
"Then do me the favor to mount that box and drive my horses this afternoon."
"And you, sir," turning to poor Belknap, "get off my premises and keep off."
And so it came about that Jerry Belknap, private detective, found himself once more outwitted, and "Mr. Smith, the book-peddler," drove the carriage containing John Burrill's chief mourners.
"Pardon this little scene, gentlemen," said Mr. Lamotte, turning to his friends, "but I happen to know that the man I dismissed is drunk."
Half an hour later a servant tapped softly at the door where Constance kept watch, and said:
"There's a boy below, Miss Wardour, who says he has an important message for you, and must deliver it in person."
Constance went immediately down to find our old friend George, the image boy, in the hall below.
She smiled at sight of him, hoping to obtain some news of Bathurst. But he only bowed, as if to a queen, placed in her hand a small, sealed envelope; and before she could utter a word, she was standing alone in the crape-hung hall, while the boy's steps could be heard ringing on the stones outside.
Standing there, Constance hastily opened the envelope. It contained a letter and a scrap of paper. Glancing first at the scrap, she read these words: