Sylvester was still bending in ecstasy over those strange finger-prints—the absorbed ecstasy of the collector who has come unexpectedly upon a specimen wonderful and precious.
"Well," he said, looking up, at last, "I've learned something new to-day. These prints shall have the place of honour. They might not be a means of identification among the Thugs, but I'll wager there's no collection in America has a set like them! They're unique!"
"But not in the least like the photographs," put in Goldberger, drily.
"No," and Sylvester flushed a little as he felt himself jerked from his hobby. "None of the prints we have taken this afternoon resemble the photographs in any way."
"But those made by Mr. Swaindoresemble them?"
"It is more than a resemblance. They are identical with them."
"What inference do you draw from that?"
"It is more than an inference," Sylvester retorted. "It is a certainty. I am willing to swear that the finger-prints on the robe worn by the murdered man were made by Frederic Swain."
"You realise the serious nature of this assertion?" asked the coroner, slowly.
"I realise it fully."
"And that realisation does not cause you to modify it in any way?"
"It cannot be modified," said Sylvester, firmly, "however serious it may be, however reluctant I may be to make it—it cannot be modified because it is the truth."
There was a moment's silence, then Goldberger turned to me.
"Have you any questions to ask the witness, Mr. Lester?"
"No," I answered; "I have none."
Sylvester bent again above his prints, while the coroner and the prosecutor held a brief consultation. Then Goldberger turned back to me.
"Have you anything further, Mr. Lester?" he asked. "Our evidence is all in, I believe."
I was driven to my last entrenchment.
"I should like to call Miss Vaughan," I said, "if Dr. Hinman thinks she is strong enough."
Swain's chair creaked as he swung toward me.
"No, no!" he whispered, angrily. "Don't do that! Spare her that!"
But I waved him away, for it was his honour and welfare I had to consider, not Miss Vaughan's convenience, and turned to Dr. Hinman, who was evidently struggling between two duties. One was his duty to his patient; the other his duty to a man cruelly threatened, whom his patient's testimony might save.
"Well, what do you say, doctor?" asked the coroner.
"Miss Vaughan is no doubt able to testify," said the doctor, slowly, "but I should like to spare her as much as possible. Couldn't her deposition be taken privately? I think you mentioned something of the sort."
Goldberger looked at me.
"I shall be satisfied," I said, "to question her in the presence of Mr. Goldberger, reserving the right to put her on the stand, should I deem it necessary to do so."
"Very well," agreed the doctor. "I will prepare her," and he hurried away toward the house.
Swain was gripping my arm savagely.
"See here, Mr. Lester," he said in my ear, his voice shaking with anger, "I'm in deadly earnest about this. Take Miss Vaughan's deposition if you wish, but under no circumstances shall she be hauled before this crowd, in her present condition, and compelled to testify."
"Why not?" I asked, surprised at his vehemence.
"Because, in the first place, her testimony can't help me; and, in the second place, I won't have her tortured."
"She wouldn't be tortured."
"Look around at these reporters and these photographers, and then tell me she wouldn't be tortured!"
"How do you know her evidence won't help you?"
"How can it?"
"It will confirm your story."
"Can it explain away the finger-prints?"
At the words, I suddenly realised that there was one person within striking distance of the murdered man whose prints we had not taken—his daughter. Not that they were necessary ...
Dr. Hinman appeared at the edge of the lawn and beckoned. As I arose from my chair, Swain gave my arm a last savage grip.
"Remember!" he said.
But I kept my lips closed. If Miss Vaughan really loved him, and could help him, I would not need to urge her to the stand!
Goldberger joined me and together we followed Hinman into the house and up the stairs. He opened the door at the stair-head, waited for usto precede him, followed us into the room, and closed the door gently.
Miss Vaughan was half-sitting, half-reclining in a large chair. The blinds were drawn and the room in semi-darkness, but even in that light I could see how changed she was from the girl of whom I had caught a glimpse two days before. Her face was dead white, as though every drop of blood had been drained from it; her eyes were heavy and puffed, as from much weeping, and it seemed to me that there still lingered in their depths a shadow of horror and shrinking fear.
"This is Mr. Goldberger," said the doctor, "and this is Mr. Lester."
She inclined her head to each of us, as we took the chairs the doctor drew up, and I fancied that her cheeks flushed a little as her eyes met mine.
"I have explained to Miss Vaughan," the doctor continued, "that an inquiry is in progress, as the law requires, to determine the manner of her father's death, and that her story of what happened that night is essential to it."
"It will, at least, be a great help to us," said Goldberger gently, and I saw how deeply the girl's delicate beauty appealed to him. It was a beauty which no pallor could disguise, and Goldberger's temperament was an impressionable one.
"I shall be glad to tell you all I know," said Miss Vaughan, "but I fear it will not help you much."
"Will you tell us something, first, of your father's mental state?" I suggested.
"For many years," she began, "father had been a student of mysticism, and until quite recently he remained merely a student. I mean by that that he approached the subject with a detached mind and with no interest in it except a scientific interest."
"I understand," I said. "And that has changed recently?"
"It has changed completely in the last few months. He became a disciple, a convert anxious to win other converts."
"A convert to what?"
"To Hinduism—to the worship of Siva."
"That is the cult to which Francisco Silva belongs?"
"Yes; he is a White Priest of Siva."
"And this change in your father has been since the coming of this man?"
"Yes."
"Do you know anything of him?"
"Only that he is a very wonderful man."
"You know nothing of his past?"
"No."
"Did your father wish you to become a convert?"
"Yes, he desired it deeply."
"A priestess of Siva, I believe it is called?"
"Yes."
"And the yogi also desired it?"
"He believed it would be a great destiny. But he urged it only for my father's sake."
"So you determined to appeal to Mr. Swain?"
The colour deepened in her cheeks again.
"I decided to ask his advice," she said.
"Please tell us what happened that evening."
"Mr. Swain met me at the arbour in the corner of the grounds, as I had asked him to, and convinced me that my father's mind had given way under his long study of the occult. We decided that he should be placed in a sanitarium where he could have proper attention, and Mr. Swain was to make the necessary arrangements. All I would have to do would be to sign some papers. We were just saying good-night, when my father appeared at the entrance of the arbour."
"This was about midnight, was it not?"
"Yes."
"Why did you choose that hour for the meeting?"
"Because at that hour my father and the yogiwere always engaged in invoking an astral benediction."
Even I, who knew the significance of the words, paused a little at them. The doctor and Goldberger were hopelessly at sea. After all, the words were a very good description of the weird ceremony.
"Well," I said, "and after your father appeared, what happened?"
"He was very excited and spoke to Mr. Swain in a most violent manner. Mr. Swain attempted to take me away from him, not knowing, at first, who it was had seized me; but I pushed him back and led my father away toward the house."
"Did Mr. Swain touch your father?"
"No; I was between them all the time. I was determined that they should not touch each other. I was afraid, if they came together, that something terrible would happen."
Goldberger glanced at me.
"Something terrible to your father?" he asked.
"Oh, no," she answered, quickly; "Mr. Swain would not have harmed my father, but father did not know what he was doing and might have harmed Mr. Swain."
It was my turn to look at Goldberger.
"After you left the arbour," I asked, "did you see Mr. Swain again?"
"No, I did not see him again."
"You went straight to the house?"
"Yes; father was still very violent. He had forbidden me to see Mr. Swain or to write to him. He had taken a violent dislike to him."
"Do you know why?"
"Yes," and she flushed a little, but went on bravely. "He believed that Mr. Swain wished to marry me."
"As, in fact, he did," I commented.
"Yes; or, at least, he did before his financial troubles came. After that, he wished to give me up."
"But you refused to be given up?"
"Yes," she said, and looked at me with eyes beautifully radiant. "I refused to be given up."
I felt that I was rushing in where angels would hesitate to enter, and beat a hasty retreat.
"Was your father always opposed to your marriage?" I asked.
"No; he has wanted me to wait until I was of age; but he never absolutely forbade it until a few months ago. It was at the time he first tried to persuade me to become a convert to Hinduism."
"What occurred after you and your father reached the house?"
"Father was very angry, and demanded that I promise never to see Mr. Swain again. WhenI refused to promise, he sent me to my room, forbidding me to leave it without his permission. I came up at once, more than ever convinced that father needed medical attention. I was very nervous and over-wrought, and I sat down by the window to control myself before going to bed. And then, suddenly, I remembered something the yogi had told me—that father was not strong, and that a fit of anger might be very serious. I knew the servants had gone to bed, and that he must be downstairs alone, since I had heard no one come up."
"You had heard no one in the hall at all?" I asked.
"No, I had heard no one. But I remember, as I started down the stairs, a curious feeling of dread seized me. It was so strong that I stood for some moments on the top step before I could muster courage to go down. At last, Ididgo down and—and found my father!"
She stopped, her hands over her eyes, as though to shut away the remembrance of that dreadful sight.
"Have you strength to tell me just what happened, Miss Vaughan?" I asked gently.
She controlled herself with an effort and took her hands from her face.
"Yes," she said; "I can tell you. I rememberthat I stood for a moment at the door, looking about the room, for at the first glance I thought there was no one there. I thought, for an instant, that father had gone into the grounds, for the curtain at the other door was trembling a little, as though someone had just passed."
"Ah!" I said, and looked at Goldberger.
"It might have been merely the breeze, might it not?" he asked.
"I suppose so. The next instant I saw my father huddled forward in his chair. I was sure he had had a seizure of some sort; I ran to him, and raised his head...."
Again she stopped, her eyes covered, and a slow shudder shook her from head to foot. I could guess what a shock the sight of that horrible face had been!
"I do not remember anything more," she added, in a whisper.
For a moment, we all sat silent. The only portion of her evidence which could in any way help Swain was her discovery of the swaying curtain, and even that, as Goldberger had pointed out, might easily mean nothing.
"Miss Vaughan," I said, at last, "how long a time elapsed from the moment you left your father in the library until you found him?"
"I don't know. Perhaps fifteen minutes."
"Was he quite dead when you found him?"
"Yes, I—I think so."
"Then," I said to Goldberger, "the murder must have been committed very soon after Miss Vaughan came upstairs."
"Yes," agreed Goldberger, in a low tone, "and by somebody who came in from the grounds, since she met no one in the hall and heard no one."
Miss Vaughan leaned toward him, her hands clasping and unclasping.
"Do you know who it was?" she gasped. "Have you found out who it was?"
"We suspect who it was," answered Goldberger gravely.
"Tell me," she began.
"Wait a minute, Miss Vaughan," I broke in. "Tell me, first—did you hear anyone following you across the garden?"
"Yes," she answered thoughtfully; "once or twice I fancied that someone was following us. It seemed to me I heard a step, but when I looked back I saw no one."
"Did that fact make you uneasy?"
"No," she said, with a little smile. "I thought it was Mr. Swain."
I saw Goldberger's sudden movement. I myself could not repress a little shudder.
"You thought that would be the natural thing for Mr. Swain to do, did you not?" the coroner inquired.
"Yes—I thought he might wish to see me safe." Then she stopped, leaning forward in her chair and staring first at Goldberger and then at me. "What is it?" she whispered, her hands against her heart. "Oh, what is it? You don't mean—you can't mean—oh, tell me! It isn't Fred you suspect! It can't be Fred!"
It was Dr. Hinman who laid a gentle and quieting hand upon her shoulder, and it was his grave voice which answered her.
"Yes," he said, "there are some things which seem to implicate Mr. Swain; but both Mr. Lester and I are certain he isn't guilty. We're going to prove it!"
She looked up at him with a grateful smile.
"Thank you!" she gasped. "I—wait a moment—I was silly to give way so. Of course you will prove it! It's absurd!" And then she stopped and looked at Goldberger. "Doyoubelieve it?" she demanded.
Goldberger flushed a little under her gaze.
"I don't know what to believe, Miss Vaughan," he said. "I'm searching for the truth."
"So are we all," I said. "I am counsel for Mr. Swain, Miss Vaughan, and I have come toyou, hoping that your story would help to clear him."
"Oh, I wish it might!" she cried.
"You know Mr. Swain cut his wrist as he came over the wall that night?"
"Yes, he told me. He didn't know it was bleeding, at first; then he felt the blood on his hand, and I wrapped his wrist in my handkerchief."
"Was it this handkerchief?" asked Goldberger, and took from his pocket the blood-stained square and handed it to her.
She took it with a little shiver, looked at it, and passed it back to him.
"Yes," she said; "that is it."
Then she sat upright, her clenched hands against her breast, staring at us with starting eyes.
"I remember now!" she gasped. "I remember now! I saw it—a blotch of red—lying on the floor beside my father's chair! How did it get there, Mr. Lester? Had he been there? Did he follow us?" She stopped again, as she saw the look in Goldberger's eyes, and then the look in mine. With a long, indrawn breath of horror, she cowered back into the chair, shaking from head to foot. "Oh, what have I done!" she moaned. "What have I done?"
There could be no question as to what she haddone, I told myself, bitterly: she had added another link to the chain of evidence about her lover. I could see the same thought in the sardonic gaze which Goldberger turned upon me; but before either of us could say a word, the doctor, with a peremptory gesture, had driven us from the room.
Goldberger paused at the stair-head and looked at me, an ironical light in his eyes. I knew he suspected that Miss Vaughan's story of the handkerchief was no great surprise to me.
"Well," he asked, "will you wish to put her on the stand?"
I shook my head and started down the stairs, for I was far from desiring an argument just then, but he stopped me with a hand upon the sleeve.
"You realise, Mr. Lester," he said, more seriously, "that it is plainly my duty to cause Swain's arrest?"
"Yes," I assented. "I realise that. Under the circumstances, you can do nothing else."
He nodded, and we went downstairs together. I saw Swain's eager eyes upon us as we came out upon the lawn, and his lips were at my ear the instant I had taken my seat.
"Well?" he whispered.
"She cannot help you," I said. I did not think it necessary to say how deeply she would hurt him when her testimony was called for in open court, as, of course, it would be.
"And you won't put her on the stand?"
"No," I answered, and he sank back with a sigh of relief. Then something in my face seemed to catch his eye, for he leaned forward again. "You don't mean that she believes I did it!" he demanded hoarsely.
"Oh, no," I hastened to assure him; "she says such an accusation is absurd; she was greatly overcome when she learned that you were even suspected; she said...."
But the coroner rapped for order.
"Have you any other evidence to introduce, Mr. Lester?" he asked.
"No, Your Honour," I answered, and I saw the cloud of disappointment which fell upon the faces of reporters and photographers. To have been able to feature Miss Vaughan would have meant an extra column. I could also see, from the expression on the faces of the jury, that my failure to put her on the stand made an unfavourable impression. There was, indeed, only one inference to draw from it.
Goldberger turned aside for a few words with the prosecutor, and I suspected that he was telling him of Miss Vaughan's discovery of the blood-stained handkerchief; but there was no way to get the story before the jury without calling her. They seemed to agree, at last, that they had evidence enough, for the jury was instructed to prepare its verdict. Its members withdrew a little distance under the trees, and gathered into a group to talk it over.
I watched them for a moment, and then I turned to Swain.
"I suppose you know," I said, "that they're certain to find against you? Even if they don't, the district attorney will cause your arrest right away."
He nodded.
"I'm not worrying about that. I'm worrying about Miss Vaughan. You won't forget your promise?"
"No."
"She'll have no one but you," he went on rapidly. "Neither will I! You mustn't fail us!"
"I shan't," I promised. "But you'd better think about yourself a little, Swain."
"Plenty of time for that when I'm sure that Marjorie's safe. The minute you tell me she's at the Royces', I'll begin to think about myself. I'm not afraid. I didn't kill that man. No jury would convict me."
I might have told him that convictions are founded on evidence, and that the evidence in this case was certainly against him, but I thought itbetter to hold my peace. The more confident he was, the less irksome he would find imprisonment. So I sat silent until the members of the jury filed back into their places.
"Have you reached a verdict, gentlemen?" the coroner asked, after his clerk had polled them.
"Yes, Your Honour," the foreman answered.
"What is the verdict?"
The foreman held out a folded paper to the clerk, who took it, opened it, and read:
"We, the jury in the inquest held this thirteenth day of June, 1908, into the death of one Worthington Vaughan, residing in the Borough of the Bronx, City of New York, do find that the deceased came to his death by strangulation at the hands of one Frederic Swain."
There was an instant's silence, and then Goldberger turned to the jury.
"Is this your verdict, gentlemen?" he asked quietly; and each juryman replied in the affirmative as his name was called. "I thank you for your services," Goldberger added, directed his clerk to give them their vouchers on the city treasurer, and dismissed them.
Simmonds and the assistant district attorney came toward us, and I arose to meet them. Swain got up, also, and when I glanced at him I saw that he was smiling.
"I don't know whether you have met Mr. Blake, Mr. Lester," said Simmonds, and the prosecutor and I shook hands. I introduced him to Swain, but Swain did not offer his hand.
"I suppose you've come to take me along?" he said, the smile still on his lips.
"I'm afraid we'll have to."
"Would bail be considered?" I asked.
"I'm afraid not," and Blake shook his head. "It isn't a bailable offence."
I knew, of course, that he was right and that it was of no use to argue or protest. Swain turned to me and held out his hand.
"Then I'll say good-bye, Mr. Lester," he said. "I'll hope to see you Monday."
"You shall," I promised.
"And with good news," he added.
"Yes—and with good news."
"Can we give you a lift?" Blake asked.
"No," I said, "thank you; but I'm staying out here for the present."
I watched them as they climbed into a car—Goldberger, Blake, Simmonds and Swain; I saw the latter take one last look at the house; then he waved to me, as the car turned into the highroad—at least, he was taking it bravely! The coroner's assistants climbed into a second car, and the four or five policemen into a third. Then thereporters and photographers piled into the others, the few stragglers who had straggled in straggled on again, and in five minutes the place was deserted. As I looked around, I was surprised to see that even Godfrey had departed. There was something depressing about the jumble of chairs and tables, the litter of paper on the grass—something sordid, as of a banquet-hall deserted by the diners.
I turned away and started for the gate; and then, suddenly, I wondered who was in charge of the house. Who would give orders to clear away this litter? Who would arrange for the funeral on the morrow? How could Miss Vaughan do it, ill as she was? With quick resolution, I turned back toward the house. As I did so, I was surprised to see a man appear at the edge of the lawn and run toward me. It was Hinman.
"I was afraid I'd missed you," he said. "Miss Vaughan wishes to see you. She's all alone here and needs some help."
"I'd thought of that," I said. "I was just coming to offer it. Is she better?"
"Yes, much better. I think she has realised the necessity of conquering her nerves. Of course, we must still be careful."
I nodded, and followed him into the house. Then I stopped in astonishment, for Miss Vaughanwas sitting in a chair in the library. She rose as I entered, came a step toward me and held out her hand.
"You must not think too badly of me, Mr. Lester," she said. "I won't give way again, I promise you."
"You have had a great deal to bear," I protested, taking her hand in mine. "I think you have been very brave. I only hope that I can be of some service to you."
"Thank you. I am sure you can. Let us all sit down, for we must have quite a talk. Dr. Hinman tells me that I shall need a lawyer."
"Undoubtedly," I assented. "Your father's estate will have to be settled, and that can only be done in the courts. Besides, in the eyes of the law, you are still a minor."
"Will you be my lawyer, Mr. Lester?"
"It will be a great privilege," I answered.
"Then we will consider that settled?"
"Yes," I agreed, "we will consider that settled."
"But it is not business I wish to discuss to-day," she went on, quickly. "There are other things more urgent. First, I wish to get acquainted with you. Have you not wondered, Mr. Lester, why it was that I chose you to deliver my letter?"
"I suppose it was because there was no oneelse," I answered, looking at her in some astonishment for the way she was rattling on. The colour was coming and going in her cheeks and her eyes were very bright. I wondered if she had escaped brain fever, after all.
"No," she said, smiling audaciously, "it was because I liked your face—I knew you could be trusted. Of course, for a moment I was startled at seeing you looking down at me from a tree. I wondered afterwards how you came to be there."
"Just idle curiosity," I managed to stammer, my face very hot. "I am sorry if I annoyed you."
"Oh, but it was most fortunate," she protested; "and a great coincidence, too, that you should be Mr. Swain's employer, and able to get hold of him at once."
"It didn't do much good," I said, gloomily; "and it has ended in putting Swain in jail."
I happened to glance at her hands, folded in her lap, and saw that they were fairly biting into each other.
"In jail!" she whispered, and now there was no colour in her face.
"Forgive me, Miss Vaughan," I said, hastily. "That was brutal. I forgot you didn't know."
"Tell me!" she panted. "Tell me! I can stand it! Oh, you foolish man, didn't you see—I was trying to nerve myself—I was trying to find out...."
I caught the hands that were bruising themselves against each other and held them fast.
"Miss Vaughan," I said, "listen to me and believe that I am telling you the whole truth. The coroner's jury returned a verdict that Swain was guilty of your father's death. As the result of that verdict, he has been taken to the Tombs. But the last words he said to me before the officers took him away were that he was innocent, and that he had no fear."
"Surely," she assented, eagerly, "he should have no fear. But to think of him in prison—it tears my heart!"
"Don't think of it that way!" I protested. "He is bearing it bravely—when I saw him last, he was smiling."
"But the stain—the disgrace."
"There will be none; he shall be freed without stain—I will see to that."
"But I cannot understand," she said, "how the officers of the law could blunder so."
"All of the evidence against him," I said, "was purely circumstantial, except in one particular. He was in the grounds at the time the murder was committed; your father had quarrelled with him, and it was possible that he had followed you andyour father to the house, perhaps not knowing clearly what he was doing, and that another quarrel had occurred. But that amounted to nothing. Young men like Swain, even when half-unconscious, don't murder old men by strangling them with a piece of curtain-cord. To suppose that Swain did so would be absurd, but for one thing—no, for two things."
"What are they?" she demanded.
"One is that the handkerchief which you had tied about his wrist was found beside your father's chair—but it was not upon that the jury made its finding."
"What was it, then?"
"It was this: Swain swore positively that at no time during the evening had he touched your father."
"Yes, yes; and that was true. He could not have touched him."
"And yet," I went on slowly, "prints of Swain's blood-stained fingers were found on your father's robe."
"But," she gasped, pulling her hands away from me and wringing them together, "how could that be? That is impossible!"
"I should think so, too," I agreed, "if I had not seen the prints with my own eyes."
"You are sure they were his—you are sure?"
"I am afraid there can be no doubt of it," and I told her how Sylvester had proved it.
She listened motionless, mute, scarce-breathing, searching my face with distended eyes. Then, suddenly, her face changed, she rose from her chair, flew across the room, opened a book-case and pulled out a bulky volume bound in vellum. She turned the pages rapidly, giving each of them only a glance. Suddenly she stopped, and stared at a page, her face livid.
"What is it?" I asked, and hastened to her.
"It is the book of finger-prints," she gasped. "A great many—oh, a great many—my father collected and studied them for years. He believed—I do not know what he believed."
She paused, struggling for breath.
"Well," I said; "what then?"
"Mr. Swain's was among them," she went on, in the merest whisper. "They were here—page two hundred and thirty—see, there is an index—'Swain, F., page two hundred and thirty.'"
She pointed at the entry with a shaking finger.
"Well," I said again, striving to understand, "what of it?"
"Look!" she whispered, holding the book toward me, "that page is no longer there! It has been torn out!"
Then, with a convulsive shudder, she closed the book, thrust it back into its place, and ran noiselessly to the door leading to the hall. She swept back the curtain and looked out.
"Oh, is it you, Annie?" she said, and I saw the Irish maid standing just outside. "I was about to call you. Please tell Henry to bring those tables and chairs in from the lawn."
"Yes, ma'am," said the girl, and turned away.
Miss Vaughan stood looking after her for a moment, then dropped the curtain and turned back again into the room. I saw that she had mastered her emotion, but her face was still dead white.
As for me, my brain was whirling. What if Swain's finger-printsweremissing from the book? What connection could that have with the blood-stains on the robe? What was the meaning of Miss Vaughan's emotion? Who was it she had expected to find listening at the door? I could only stare at her, and she smiled slightly as she saw my look.
"But what is it you suspect?" I stammered. "I don't see...."
"Neither do I," she broke in. "But I am trying to see—I am trying to see!" and she wrung her hands together.
"The disappearance of the prints seems plain enough to me," said Hinman, coming forward."Mr. Vaughan no doubt tore them out himself, when he took his violent dislike to Swain. The act would be characteristic of a certain form of mania. Nobody else would have any motive for destroying them; in fact, no one else would dare mutilate a book he prized so highly."
Miss Vaughan seemed to breathe more freely, but her intent inward look did not relax.
"At least that is an explanation," I agreed.
"It is the true explanation," said Hinman, confidently. "Can you suggest any other, Miss Vaughan?"
"No," she said, slowly; "no," and walked once or twice up and down the room. Then she seemed to put the subject away from her. "At any rate, it is of no importance. I wish to speak to you about my father's funeral, Dr. Hinman," she went on, in another tone. "It is to be to-morrow?"
"Yes—at eleven o'clock. I have made such arrangements as I could without consulting you. But there are some things you will have to tell me."
"What are they?"
"Do you desire a minister?"
"No. He would not have wished it. If there is any priest, it will be his own."
"You mean the yogi?"
"Yes."
"Are there any relatives to inform?"
"No."
"Where shall the body be buried?"
"It must not be buried. It must be given to the flames. That was his wish."
"Very well. I will arrange for cremation. Will you wish to accompany it?"
"No, no!" she cried, with a gesture of repugnance.
"That is all, then, I believe," said Hinman slowly. "And now I must be going. I beg you not to overtax yourself."
"I shall not," she promised, and he bowed and left us.
The afternoon was fading into evening, and the shadows were deepening in the room. I glanced about me with a little feeling of apprehension.
"The nurses are still here, are they not?" I asked.
"Yes; but I shall dismiss them to-morrow."
I hesitated a moment. I did not wish to alarm her, and yet....
"After they are gone, it will be rather lonesome for you here," I ventured.
"I am used to being lonesome."
"My partner's wife, Mrs. Royce, would bevery glad if you would come to her," I said. "I have a letter from her," and I gave it to her.
She stood considering it with a little pucker of perplexity between her brows. She did not attempt to open it.
"She is very kind," she murmured, and her tone surprised and disappointed me.
"May I see you to-morrow?"
"If you wish."
"I shall come some time during the afternoon," I said, and took up my hat. "There is nothing else I can do for you?"
"No, I believe not."
She was plainly preoccupied and answered almost at random, with a coldness in sharp contrast to the warmth of her previous manner.
"Then I will say good-bye."
"Good-bye, Mr. Lester; and thank you."
She went with me to the door, and stood for a moment looking after me; then she turned back into the house. And I went on down the avenue with a chill at my heart.
I was surprised, when I came down for dinner an hour later, to find Godfrey awaiting me.
"I always try to make it, Saturday night," he explained. "The chief throws the work on the other fellows, if he can. That's the reason I hustled away after the inquest. The story's all in, and now we'll have a good dinner—if I do say it myself—and then a good talk. I feel the need of a talk, Lester."
"So do I," I said; "though I'm afraid talking won't help us much."
"The funny thing about this case is," mused Godfrey, "that the farther we get into it the thicker it grows."
"Yes," I agreed, "and the more one thinks about it, the less one understands."
"Well, suppose we get away from it for a while," said Godfrey, and turned the talk to other things. No man could talk more delightfully of music, of art, of letters. How he managed it I could never guess, but he seemed to have read everything, to have seen everything, to have heardeverything. Marryat, for instance; who reads Marryat nowadays? And yet he had read the "Phantom Ship," and so knew something of Goa. An hour passed very quickly, but at last he rose and led the way into his study.
"A friend of mine dropped in to see me to-day at the office," he remarked, "a Cuban planter who comes up to New York occasionally, and whom I happened to help out of a rather serious difficulty a few years ago. Perhaps some day I'll tell you about it. He always brings me a bundle of his own special cigars. I didn't see him to-day, but he left the cigars, and I want you to try one. Perhaps it will give you an inspiration."
He went to his desk, opened a tin-foiled package that lay there, and carefully extracted two long cigars of a rich and glowing brown.
"Perhaps you've heard of the special cigars that are made for Pierpont Morgan," he went on, as he handed one to me, after carefully replacing the wrappings of the bundle. "Well, I smoked one of Morgan's cigars once—it was good, mighty good; but it wasn't in the same class with these. Light up."
I did. Never before had I drawn between my lips a breath so satisfying—so rich, so smooth, so full of flavour. I exhaled the fragrant smoke slowly.
"Godfrey," I said, "I never knew what tobacco was before. Are these cigars purchasable? I'm only a poor lawyer, but even one a month would be a thing to look forward to and dream about."
But Godfrey shook his head.
"I've felt like that," he said; "but they're not to be had for money. And now about Swain."
"Let's postpone it a little longer," I begged. "I don't want my mind distracted."
Godfrey laughed, but fell silent; and for the next half hour, no sound was heard.
"Now," I said, at last, "I'm ready to listen, so fire ahead whenever you want to."
"I haven't much to tell," he began; "nothing new about the case. But I stopped at the Tombs, before I started back, to make sure that Swain had everything he wanted. They'd given him an upper cell, and sent over to the Marathon and got him his things, and I arranged to have his meals sent in to him from Moquin's."
"I ought to have thought of that," I said, contritely. "I'm much obliged to you, Godfrey. Did you see him?"
"Only for a minute. He seemed fairly cheerful. He'd had them bring some of his law books to him, and remarked that he'd have plenty of time to study. I like the way he's taking it. He gave me a message for you."
"What was it?"
"That you are not to forget your promise."
I smoked on for a few moments in silence.
"I promised him I'd get Miss Vaughan away from that house," I said at last. "I had Mrs. Royce write her a note, inviting her to stay with her. I gave it to her this afternoon."
"What did she say?"
"She didn't say anything, but I could see the idea didn't impress her. And I had thought all along that she would jump at it."
Godfrey gave a little grunt, whether of surprise or satisfaction I could not tell.
"Why didn't you put her on the stand to-day, Lester?" he asked. "Afraid of upsetting her?"
"I wouldn't have stopped for that, if her evidence would have helped Swain. But it would only have put him deeper in the hole."
"In what way?"
"Well, in the first place, she says that as she and her father returned to the house, she heard footsteps behind them and thought it was Swain following them, because that would be a natural thing for him to do; and, in the second place, she saw that blood-stained handkerchief on the floor beside her father's chair when she came into the room and found him dead."
"So," said Godfrey slowly, "it couldn't have been dropped there by Swain when he stooped to pick her up."
"No; besides, we know perfectly well that it wasn't about his wrist when he came back over the wall. Goldberger knows it, too, and we'll be asked about it, next time."
"It might have been pushed up his sleeve—we weren't absolutely certain. But this new evidence settles it."
I assented miserably and Godfrey smoked on thoughtfully. But my cigar had lost some of its flavour.
"How did Miss Vaughan come to find the body?" he asked at last, and I told him the story as she had told it to me. He thought it over for some moments; then he leaned forward and laid his hand on my knee.
"Now, Lester," he said, "let's review this thing. It can't be as dark as it seems—there's light somewhere. Here is the case, bared of all inessentials: Swain crosses the wall about eleven o'clock, cutting his wrist as he does so; Miss Vaughan meets him about eleven-thirty, and after a time, finds that his wrist is bleeding and ties her handkerchief about it; they agree to have her father examined for lunacy, arrange a meeting for the next night, and are about to separate, whenher father rushes in upon them, savagely berates Swain and takes his daughter away. That must have been about twelve o'clock.
"Swain, according to his story, sits there for ten or fifteen minutes, finally sees the cobra, or thinks he does, and makes a dash for safety, striking his head sharply against a tree. He tumbles over the wall in a half-dazed condition. The handkerchief is no longer about his wrist. That, you will remember, was about twelve-twenty.
"Almost at once we heard Miss Vaughan's screams. After that, Swain isn't out of our sight for more than a minute—too short a time, anyway, for anything to have happened we don't know about.
"Meanwhile, Miss Vaughan has returned with her father to the house, hearing steps behind her and taking it for granted that it is Swain following at a distance. She goes to her room, stays there fifteen minutes or so, and comes downstairs again to find her father dead.
"Now let us see what had happened. You were right in saying that her father must have been strangled immediately after she left him. Otherwise he would still have been twitching in such a way that she must have noticed it. No doubt he dropped into the chair exhausted by his fit of rage; the murderer entered through the garden door,stopped to cut off the end of the curtain-cord and make a noose of it—that would have taken at least a minute—and then strangled his victim. Then he heard her coming down the stairs, and escaped through the garden-door again just as she entered at the other. She saw the curtain still shaking. Then she fainted.
"Now, what are the clues to the murderer? A string tied with a peculiar knot, the blood-stained handkerchief, and the finger-prints on the dead man's robe."
Godfrey paused for a moment. Freed of its inessentials, in this way, the case was beautifully clear—and beautifully baffling. It was a paved way, smooth and wide and without obstruction of any kind; but it ended in a cul-de-sac!
"One thing is certain," Godfrey went on, at last; "the murder was committed by somebody—either by Swain, or by one of the Hindus, or by some unknown. Let us weigh the evidence for and against each of them.
"Against Swain it may be urged that he was on the ground, that he had time to do it, and some provocation, though the provocation, as we know it, seems to be inadequate, provided Swain was in his right mind; a handkerchief which was tied about his wrist is found beside the body, and his finger-prints are found upon it. Miss Vaughan believed he was following them; he admits that he thought of doing so.
"In his favour, it may be urged that a man like Swain doesn't commit murder—though, as a matter of fact, this is a dangerous generalisation, for all sorts of men commit murder; but if he should do so, it would be only under great provocation and in the heat of anger, certainly not in cold blood with a noose; and, finally, if the motion of the curtain Miss Vaughan noticed was made by the murderer, it couldn't possibly have been Swain, because he was with us at that moment. You will see that there is a mass of evidence against him, and practically the whole defence is that such a crime would be impossible to one of his temperament. You know yourself how flimsy such a defence is.
"Against the Hindus, on the other hand, practically the only basis for suspicion is that such a crime might be temperamentally possible to them. They may have been on the ground, and the method of the murder savours strongly of Thuggee—though don't forget that Swain admitted he could have tied that knot. Besides, if it was the Thug who followed them, he wouldn't have made any noise, and most certainly he couldn't have left the prints of Swain's fingers on the body. But if Swain is right in his assertion that he saw thesnake in the arbour, it is probable that the Thug wasn't far away.
"Against an unknown it may be urged that neither Swain nor the Hindus could have committed the crime; but I don't see how an unknown could either, unless he happened to be one of the three or four people in the world with finger-tips like Swain's. And that is too far-fetched to be believable.
"But this I am sure of, Lester," and Godfrey leaned forward again: "the murder was committed either by Swain or by someone anxious to implicate Swain. We agree that it wasn't Swain. Very well, then: the person who committed the murder made a noise in following Miss Vaughan and her father so that she should think it was Swain who was following them; he picked up the blood-stained handkerchief, which Swain had dropped perhaps when he fled from the arbour, and placed it beside the body; and in some way inconceivable to me he pressed the prints of Swain's fingers on the dead man's robe. Now, to do that, he must have known that Swain was injured—the blood-stained handkerchief would tell him that; but he must also have known that it was his right hand that was injured. There was no blood on Swain's left hand."
Again Godfrey paused. I was following hisreasoning with such absorbed attention that I could feel my brain crinkle with the effort.
"Now, listen," said Godfrey, and I could have smiled at the uselessness of the admonition—as if I were not already listening with all my faculties! "There is only one way in which the murderer could have known that it was Swain's right hand, and that was by overhearing the conversation in the arbour. But if he overheard that much, he overheard it all, and he knew therefore what it was Swain proposed to do. He knew that Vaughan's sanity was to be questioned; he knew that he would probably be placed in a sanitarium; he knew that Miss Vaughan would probably marry Swain. Presuming that it was Silva, he knew that, unless something was done to stop it, a very few days would place both Vaughan and his daughter beyond his reach."
"That is true," I admitted; "but Vaughan was beyond his reach a good deal more certainly dead than he would have been in a sanitarium. Besides, it isn't at all certain that he would have been sent to a sanitarium."
"That's an objection, surely," Godfrey agreed; "but I must find out if Vaughan is really beyond his reach dead."
I stared at him.
"You don't mean...."
"I don't know what I mean, Lester. I can feel a sort of dim meaning at the back of my mind, but I can't get it out into the light."
"Besides," I went on, "if the yogi did it, how did he get back into the house before we got there?"
"He peeped in at the door, saw the coast was clear, and went back through the library. Remember, Miss Vaughan was unconscious. That doesn't bother me. And another thing, Lester. How did Miss Vaughan's father come to burst in on her and Swain like that? How did he know they were in the arbour? It was dark and he couldn't have seen either of them."
"He might have been walking about the grounds and overheard them."
"I don't believe it. I believe somebody told him they were there. And only one person could have told him—that is Silva. No—there's only one point I can't get past—that's the finger-prints."
And then I remembered.
"Godfrey," I cried, "there's one thing—I forgot to tell you. You heard Swain remark that Vaughan was a collector of finger-prints?"
"Yes."
"And that he had a set of Swain's?"
"Yes."
"Well, when I told Miss Vaughan about the prints on her father's robe, she ran to a book-case and got out a book. It had Vaughan's collection in it, all bound together. But the page on which Swain's were had been torn out."
Godfrey sat for a moment, staring at me spell-bound. Then he began pacing up and down the study, like a tiger in its cage; up and down, up and down.
"I'm bound to add," I went on finally, "that Hinman suggested a very plausible reason for their disappearance."
"What was it?"
"He said they were probably destroyed by Vaughan himself, because of his dislike of Swain. He said that would be characteristic of Vaughan's form of insanity."
Godfrey took another turn up and down, then he stopped in front of my chair.
"What did Miss Vaughan think of that explanation?" he asked.
"It didn't seem to impress her, but I don't remember that she made any comment."
He stood a moment longer staring down at me, and I could feel the intense concentration of his mind; then he ran his fingers impatiently through his hair.
"I can't get it, Lester!" he said. "I can't getit. But Iwillget it! It's there! It's there, just out of reach." He shrugged his shoulders and glanced at his watch. "I'm getting dippy," he added, in another tone. "Let's go out and get a breath of air."
I followed him out into the yard—I knew where he was going—among the trees and up the ladder. Silently we took our places on the limb; silently we stared out into the darkness.
And there, presently, the strange star glowed and burned steel-blue, and floated slowly down, and burst above a white-robed figure, standing as though carved in marble, its arms extended, its head thrown back.
"That fellow is certainly an artist," Godfrey muttered, as he led the way back to the house.