There was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement about the place that struck Lyon as soon as they were admitted to Miss Elliott's. There was a sound of voices, of shutting doors, that was like the buzz of an excited hive. The maid who took their cards for Mrs. Broughton looked startled and hesitating, but departed on her errand without remark.
"She's gone all right," murmured Lyon to his companion.
In a moment Miss Elliott appeared, severe and formal and angular as ever, but with a nervous flutter in her voice that told its own story to Lyon's quick ear.
"It is impossible for Mrs. Broughton to receive visitors," she said. "The maid brought your cards to me, but I am authorized to say that Mrs. Broughton cannot see anyone."
"It is a matter of some importance,--a legal matter," said Howell.
Miss Elliott shook her head. "I am sorry,--it is impossible."
"Do you mean that she has not yet returned?" asked Lyon, gently.
Miss Elliott turned to him with a start. "Do you mean that you have seen her? Oh, where was she? When was it? Why did she go?"
"I have not seen her. I heard that she had been able to go out, and so hoped that she might be strong enough to grant us an interview. She had asked me to call in regard to a certain matter in which she was interested. Do I understand she is out this afternoon?"
Miss Elliott threw out her hands with a gesture of despair. "I do not know where she is,--where she went or when. She has simply gone without a word. And she was hardly able to walk across the room alone. I am wild about it. Where could she have gone? And why should she go secretly? I think she must have wandered off in a delirium. And I dare not start an inquiry, for she may return at any moment, and she was so anxious to have nothing said about her visit here. But she has been so ill. With every moment that passes I feel more alarmed and more helpless."
"When did she go?" asked Lyon. "You may count on us to help you in any possible way, Miss Elliott. Give us all the information that you can about her departure."
"I went out myself this afternoon at two o'clock. The maid says that a man called to see Mrs. Broughton about half an hour later. He sent a note to her, but no card. She asked to have him come to her private sitting room, and he was there perhaps fifteen minutes. Then he left. When I came home, at four o'clock, I went at once to her room, and found it empty. She has not left her room before since she came,--she has been too ill. She is not in the house. I have myself gone all through it. She must have dressed and gone out sometime during the afternoon, when no one happened to be in the hall. But I cannot understand it. And I don't know what to do."
"Do nothing at present, madam. And say nothing to anyone about it. I will have a search instituted quietly, so that if she should not return of her own accord, we shall soon know, at any rate, where she is," said Howell. "Can you give us any information about the man who called?"
"None."
"No one saw him?"
"No one but the maid, and she is not observing. I have questioned her. She could give no description of him."
"Well, we must do the best we can without it. I shall take pleasure in letting you know as soon as we have anything to report," said Howell, rising to depart.
Lyon had left his hat and gloves on the hat-rack in the hall. As he took up his gloves, he felt something crinkle inside one of them, and he knew instantly that Kittie had sent him a message.
"That girl is a born intriguante," he laughed to himself, with a sudden thrill that was curiously tender, for all his amusement. As soon as they were outside he unfolded the little note.
"The man who came to see her was small and thin, and wore an old dark blue coat. He had a bald spot on the top of his head, and a wart on his nose. He walks on tiptoe. I hate a man who walks on tiptoe. She went away in a hurry, for she didn't take her comb or brush or anything. Oh, I'm just wild to know what is happening. Is it anything mysterious?"
Lyon read the note to Howell.
"That man was Bede," he said, seriously.
"No question about that. Now, why did she go? Because Bede persuaded her to hide, or because he frightened her into hiding on her own account? And is Bede going to produce her or isn't he? I never ran up against so many blind alleys in one case in my life. There were apparently just three people who knew what happened that night,--Fullerton, Lawrence, and Mrs. Broughton. Fullerton is dead, Mrs. Broughton is lost, and Lawrence will not talk. I wonder if this will unseal his tongue. I think I shall have to see him at once."
"We'll have to report to Broughton first. That poor man is on my mind."
"Very well, we'll go there first. My chief anxiety regarding him is that he'll give the whole thing away to the police. He is too accustomed to having his own way about things."
They walked around the block to Broughton's home, and found him waiting for them. He fairly went wild when he heard their report. He was for telephoning the police, printing posters, sending a town crier around to make proclamation,--anything and everything, and all at once. His wife was lost, and the resources of the universe must be requisitioned to get her back.
"Go slow," said Lyon. "Mrs. Broughton is not a child. She hasn't been kidnapped and she isn't lost. She is hiding somewhere. She had money and she is accustomed to traveling. I think you may feel reasonably sure that she is safe. Speaking for Lawrence, we are anxious to find her, but speaking for her, it may be just as well that she should not be found until after the grand jury has adjourned."
"What do you mean?" demanded Broughton, fiercely.
"She knows more about the Fullerton murder than it would be agreeable for her to tell in court."
"You are mad," gasped Broughton.
"Why does she disappear, as soon as she knows that Bede has connected her with the affairs of that night?"
Broughton walked the floor. Then he stopped abruptly before Howell.
"I wish that you would call up the county jail and find out if she has been there to see Lawrence. You can find out hypothetically, without giving names, you know."
"That isn't a bad idea," said Howell. He went to the telephone and inquired whether anyone had been admitted to see Lawrence that afternoon. The answer, when he repeated it to the others, seemed significant.
"A woman tried to see him a little after five, but when she found that she would have to give her name and submit to search, she went away without disclosing her identity. She wore a heavy veil, a short sealskin coat, and a dark dress. General appearance of a lady."
Broughton dropped his eyes to the floor and a look of sullen anger displaced the anxiety that had racked his features.
"I shall have an account to settle with Mr. Lawrence when he is out of jail," he muttered, savagely.
"In the meantime, our efforts are all directed to getting him out," said Howell. "And since I cannot use Mrs. Broughton as a witness, I am as well content that she is out of Bede's reach, also. I will go down to see Lawrence at once, and if I can get any information from him that will interest you in this connection, I shall let you know. I think that is all that we can do to-night."
"I'd like to go with you, when you visit Lawrence," said Lyon, quietly.
Howell considered a moment, and then nodded. Perhaps he thought that another influence might be more successful than his own in unlocking the confidence of his client.
Lawrence tossed aside the book which he had been reading, and rose to greet them with all of his old light-hearted self-possession.
"Delighted to see you! I've been reading Persian love-poems till my brains are whirling around like the song of a tipsy bulbul, so I am particularly in need of some intelligent conversation. Howell, you look as glum as though you were attorney for a wretched fellow who had no chance of escaping the gallows. I'm glad you have Lyon associated with you. I've more faith in his abilities than in yours." And he shot a dancing glance at Lyon which was not wholly mockery.
"My abilities are at least equal to the facts that have been given them to work up," said Howell, drily. "I came to ask you what you can tell me about Mrs. Broughton's visit to Waynscott."
Lawrence's eyes widened with surprise. "Mrs. Broughton! What in the name of wonder are you bringing her name in for?"
"She visited your office that day."
"Yes."
"What for?"
Lawrence shook his head. "It was a professional visit. I can't discuss the matter."
"I rather expected you to say that. But the matter comes up in this way. Lyon, here, has identified Mrs. Broughton with the woman who was seen with Fullerton that evening. He may be wrong, of course. But if he is right, it may be helpful to know what she wanted, first from you and then from him."
Lawrence did not look at Lyon this time. His eyes, swept clear of all expression, were fixed upon Howell in calm attention.
"Why not ask her?" he said.
"She has been ill,--too ill to be disturbed. Dr. Barry has insisted. This afternoon she disappeared. Bede had been to see her a short time before. Now, what bearing, so far as you know, does this have upon the case?"
Lawrence dropped his eyes, which had been fixed intently upon the speaker, and remained silent for some moments. Lyon, watching him, felt perfectly satisfied that the facts presented were all new to him, and that his mind was now trying to fit them into the theory of the crime which he had before entertained, and that his hesitation in answering was due to his caution. At last he said,
"I cannot throw any light on the subject. I did not see Mrs. Broughton after she left my office in the morning."
"Was her business of such a nature that she would have been likely to consult Fullerton about it?"
Lawrence frowned. "She might have done so. Women never keep to the rules of the game."
"You had warned her not to consult him personally?"
Lawrence smiled satirically into Howell's eyes. "What are you trying to find out?"
"Whether her business with Fullerton was of a nature to rouse her to desperation, if she failed."
"Nonsense!" Lawrence exclaimed. Then, more slowly and thoughtfully, "Out of the question. Mrs. Broughton is a shy and timid woman, and anything like desperation in her case would react upon herself, not on anyone else. You are clear off the track, Howell."
"You admit, however, that she might have been made desperate?"
"I admit nothing whatsoever. If I knew anything I wouldn't admit it. Or I'll admit that I don't know anything, if that will pacify you."
"Where would she be likely to go? You know her friends."
Lawrence shook his head. "If she was bent on hiding herself, she would not be likely to go to the likely places."
And with that Howell had to depart. As usual, his client had given him no information that would be of the slightest value in conducting the defense.
Lyon lingered when Howell had departed.
"There is another matter I want to tell you about," he said. "I had an interview with Miss Wolcott yesterday."
The flash of Lawrence's eyes was electric. "Out with it, you tongue-tied wretch," he cried. "Lord, that such privileges should fall to a man who doesn't know better than to waste time in wordy preambles. Tell me every syllable she said, every look that she didn't put into syllables. To think that you have been sitting here for half an hour with all that treasure locked up inside of you! Confound you, why don't you begin? Begin at the beginning, and omit nothing."
Lyon began, and told all of his tale. Lawrence listened with an attentiveness that seemed to meet the words half way and drag them out into expression. He had forgotten himself entirely, and his anger at her distress, his rage at Fullerton, his amazed and awed wonder when he heard that shame over her girlish folly in writing her heart out to a man unworthy of it had made her deaf to all other wooing, were as plainly revealed as though he had put them into his most voluble English. At the end he dropped his face upon his folded arms on the table.
"The poor child," he murmured to himself. "The poor child! As though that--or anything--would have made any difference!" Suddenly he wheeled upon Lyon, with dancing eyes. "Maybe you are thinking that this is an upper room in the county jail, and that I am a forlorn wretch with a good prospect of being hung! Never think it, my boy! There is nothing in all the universe so heaven-wide and free as this room. I know now how a man feels when his reprieve comes."
"But your reprieve hasn't come yet," said Lyon quietly. "That is exactly the point. Do you see any way yet in which I can help it to come?"
Lawrence looked at him silently, smilingly, and shook his head.
"Then it makes no difference in your attitude," pursued Lyon, "that Mrs. Broughton--and not anyone else--is shown to be the woman who was with Fullerton that evening?"
"It makes no difference," said Lawrence, quietly.
"Not even if she should prove to be the woman who ran across the street?"
"Is that your idea?" exclaimed Lawrence, in frank surprise. "Oh, you are on the wrong track. It was not she."
"But--if it was?"
Lawrence walked back and forth thoughtfully. Then he stopped again before Lyon.
"It would make no difference," he said. Then with a smile he placed his hand on the younger man's shoulder. "Believe me, Lyon, I appreciate your interest and your earnestness, but--beware of letting it carry you too far. There are times, you know, when the best service a friend can render is simply to keep hands off. If you start in with an idea of proving things you may possibly--prove too much! There are matters that simply must not be brought into question." He shook Lyon in friendly roughness and let him go. When Lyon came out, the early night had already fallen and shadows lay heavy in the corners beyond the reach of the street lamps. Lyon glanced at the sky, and then, instead of going to Hemlock Avenue, he took his way to the Wellington.
Lyon's first intention had been to wait until the house was quiet that night before attempting to carry out his plan of burglarizing Fullerton's apartment, but after the developments of the afternoon he felt that it was unwise to risk even an hour's delay. Bede was too active to be allowed much headway. As he made his preparations, he could not help reflecting with amusement on the way in which fate was using him. Here was he, a newspaper man, bending every energy to keep this affair out of the papers; a law-abiding man, working to frustrate the efforts of the officers of the law; an averagely moral man, deliberately planning to commit technical burglary. If he should be caught in his efforts, he might find himself in jail beside Lawrence. And to be arrested for attempted burglary was somehow less dignified than to be arrested for murder! There are delicate shades in crime that appeal to the sensibilities of the artist. However, he was in for it, and though the situation might appeal to his philosophical nature as full of paradox, he had no intention of modifying his plans.
It was eight o'clock when he got into the room which he had taken in the Wellington. He had got his keys from Hunt and mentioned casually that he was going out later in the evening. It was a cloudy, moonless night, and though the street lamps spread a diffused light through the air everywhere, the rear of the Wellington was as much in the shadow as it was possible for any place in the city to be. A jutting angle of the wall, in which there were no windows, gave him further protection in his venture.
He fastened one end of his rope ladder securely on the inside ledge of his window, and then dropped it down. It reached just to Fullerton's window on the floor below. Cautiously Lyon went down the frail support. It was a windy night and the gusts that came around the corner tossed the free end of the ladder wildly, but his weight steadied it, and though he swayed dizzily for a few minutes, he soon swung down to a point where he could get a footing on the broad window ledge of Fullerton's room. He had come prepared to cut out a piece of glass opposite the window catch, but as he put his hand upon it he felt it yield, and to his surprise and very much to his relief he found that he could push the sash up. This not only would save time, but it would enable him to cover his trail more effectively. Curiosity made him pause, even in his hurry, to examine the catch, and he found that, through a shrinkage of the wood, the snap on the lower sash did not reach to lock into the upper. It looked locked, but it did not catch. It would be possible, therefore, for him to leave it still apparently locked from the inside when leaving.
He fastened the end of his ladder so that it would not blow out of his reach, and then pulled down the window and drew the curtains to exclude the light. Only then did he venture to strike a match and to turn on the nearest gas-jet. He remembered the general arrangement of the room very well from his former visit. Here was the large square writing table in the middle of the room, and there, to the right of it on the floor, was the rug Hunt had spoken of, where the letters lay. Lyon sat down before the table and studied the arrangement quietly. A man sitting here could toss the letters to the rug easily with a careless flip of his right hand, but a letter would not of itself fall from the table to the rug. Even if blown from the table by a strong gust from the open window,--an idea that he had had in his mind as a possibility,--it would not be apt to fall upon the rug. The direct line would carry it to one side. For the present he would eliminate the table.
Where else could the letters have been placed, so as to fall upon the rug? Assuming that Fullerton had written them the last evening he was in the room, and had either forgotten to leave them for mailing, or had laid them aside for some reason when his caller arrived, where would he have been apt to leave them? Lyon took his position on the rug and studied the various pieces of furniture which lay in unobstructed lines from that point. There was a small table against the wall, and on it a circular pipe tray with an array of pipes. Above it, fastened against the wall at a height which a man could reach only if standing, was a small Chinese cabinet, carved in the semblance of a dragon, and gleaming with scarlet and gold. Like the serpent-marked note paper, it bore witness to Fullerton's fantastic taste. It would be quite in keeping with his habits for him to use this as a repository for his letters. Lyon walked over to examine it. It opened readily at his touch. The inside of the cabinet was filled with tobacco-jars. He tried to lift it from the wall, but it was too securely fastened to make this easy. But the idea that this was and must be the place where Fullerton had deposited Miss Wolcott's letters had now taken possession of him, and stepping up on a chair he examined the cabinet closely on all sides. From that point he at once saw what he had not noticed before, that on one side, near the bottom, was a crack, and the white corner of an envelope was plainly visible. With the help of his penknife he pulled it out. It was addressed to Fullerton in a delicate hand. There was at least no more mystery as to how the letters had reached the rug. Evidently Fullerton had placed them, at some time, for some purpose, in this cabinet, and they had been shaken loose at the dramatically opportune moment when Hunt found them. Probably the jarring of the wall when the furniture in this upper apartment had been moved out had helped to dislodge them, or perhaps they occasionally slipped out even when Fullerton was there, without exciting suspicions of supernatural agency. The letters he wanted were probably inside.
He again examined the cabinet within and without, and though he could find no secret drawer, he saw, by the shallowness of the space within as compared with the depth on the outside, that there must be a drawer beneath the compartment where the tobacco jars reposed. Well, if needs must--He inserted the strongest blade of his knife and pried open the whole side,--not so difficult a task as one might have supposed, for the delicate wood of the cabinet had not been expected to resist the dry heat of a modern apartment house, and it was badly cracked at several points. As the side came loose in his hands, he saw that under the ostensible interior was a shallow drawer filled with packages of letters, longer documents, and note books. He gathered the whole mass together, and tied it hastily into a bundle in his silk neckerchief. Then, with a view to Bede's possible explorations, he carefully pressed the loose side back into place.
At that moment he heard through the silence the metallic rattle of the elevator. Someone was stopping at this floor. Hastily concluding that it was wiser to make his escape unseen, if possible, with the booty which he had already secured than to risk discovery by lingering on the chance of finding more, Lyon softly turned out the gas, and made his escape by the window, carrying his knotted kerchief like an emigrant's bundle in his hand. He pulled the window down behind him and climbed up his ladder to his own room. As he leaned out to pull up his rope ladder, a sudden gleam of light shot out into the night from the window below. Bede was in Fullerton's room.
Lyon's heart was jumping, partly from the unusual physical exertion, partly from the excitement. He stood still for a moment, considering whether he should examine his find here and now, or try to make his escape from the building with it before he opened the bundle. He had suddenly a panicky feeling that Bede might appear at any moment and demand his papers. Had he really covered his tracks, or had he left some perfectly obvious clue for the detective to follow? His rope ladder lay in a heap at his feet. He rolled it up and poked it into the bottom of his bag, and then, taking courage, he opened up his bundle. The first thing that fell out was a good-sized package, neatly wrapped and sealed, and superscribed,
"This package is to be delivered to Edith Wolcott's husband on his wedding day, with the compliments and congratulations of
"Warren Fullerton."
Lyon smiled grimly as he slipped the package into his pocket. There was little doubt as to the contents of the sealed packet, and with the recovery of those unhappy love-letters, his immediate object had been most perfectly accomplished. He glanced at his watch. It was not yet nine. He might be so fortunate as to be admitted yet, and to save her even one night of the oppression which he had witnessed would be worth much. He hastily packed the balance of his trophy into his bag without examining it, and made his way out of the apartment and out of the building. Taking the staircase instead of the elevator, he felt reasonably sure that his departure had been unobserved, and so indeed it proved.
When he reached Hemlock Avenue the lights were still burning in Miss Wolcott's house, and it was Miss Wolcott herself who, after a little delay, opened the door in answer to his ring. It struck him that she looked less mistress of herself than usual. She had a startled, not to say nervous, air.
"I hoped It might be you," she said. "Come to the library." And she led the way into the room where a dancing fire blazed upon the hearth.
"I only stopped for a moment, to bring you this package," said Lyon. "If you wouldn't mind, I wish that you would open it, so that you can tell me whether or not it contains the letters you spoke of the other evening."
She took the package from him with a startled look but without a word,--a characteristic of hers which he was coming to understand. He turned away and picked up a book on the table, to withdraw his presence from her as much as possible, as she tore open the wrappings. Then he heard her give a gasping sigh, and he turned quickly toward her. She had sunk into the chair before the fire, and with her hands before her face she was sobbing with a childish abandon that was so poignant It brought a catch into Lyon's throat, even though he saw that her tears were tears of relief and joy. Scattered on the floor at her feet, where they had slipped from her trembling fingers, were dozens of little letters,--the dainty little notes of a young girl's inscribing. Like the fallen petals of blossoms that had been torn down by a harsh wind, they lay In pathetic disorder, witnessing to a beauty that had been and was no more. Lyon reached for his hat and moved silently to the door, but at his movement she rose, crushing back her tears with that self-control which had become second nature with her.
"Oh, wait!" she cried, breathlessly. "Don't go yet! Don't leave me alone--with them."
Lyon laughed. "Poor little letters! They look so forlorn. The power to hurt was never in them,--only in a man's wicked mind."
She drew a long, sobbing breath. "Still,--I don't want to touch them! Oh, I have so hated the thought of them all these years,--it seems as though all the world had been lying under the oppression of the fact that they were lurking in the dark, waiting a chance to spring out upon me. Would you mind--would you put them on the fire for me?"
"Certainly," said Lyon, with perfect gravity. He knelt down by the fireplace and gathered the white handfuls up and laid them upon the coals. When the last little envelope had curled up into filmy ash, he rose. She was standing erect before the fire, with a vitality and radiance in every line of her figure that made her like a different being. "Truly, women are beyond all understanding," thought Lyon, as he waited for her next word.
"Thank you," she said, and the simple phrase on her lips seemed like a pæan of thanksgiving. "Now,--one thing more. You know everything,--you are the only one who does. Will you tell Mr. Lawrence about these letters? He has always been a good friend, and--I should like to have him know!"
"I am sure he will be glad to learn that you will be free from further annoyance and anxiety," he said, cheerfully. "But as for my telling him,--suppose instead, I arrange for you to see him yourself to-morrow. It could be done without any publicity, you know, and it would be a godsend to him to have a visit from you. You can't imagine how stupid it is to be in prison. A visit fromanyonewould be a welcome diversion!"
She looked thoughtful and abstracted.
"To-morrow?" she hesitated. "I don't know. I may not be at home to-morrow."
"Well,--the day after, if you must postpone it."
"I'll send you word," she said, after a moment. He thought a shadow had crossed her face, but it might only have been a shadow of thought. When he again reached for his hat, she put out both hands impulsively.
"However things turn out,--other things," she said, somewhat incoherently, "I shall never, never forget what you have done for me. You have given me back myself."
Lyon smiled to himself as he left her. How long would she keep possession of that gift, if Lawrence were only free?
The radiance of Miss Wolcott's face was still lingering in Lyon's mind and diffusing a glow over his imagination when he crossed the few steps that separated her house from Broughton's. Broughton opened the door for him, as he had formed the habit of doing. The anguished and despairing inquiry in his eyes pulled Lyon up sharply. He had come from the morning to night, from the hope of youth to the sorrow of age, from those whose story was to end happily to those who knew in their own hearts the tragedy of life.
"You have nothing to tell me?" Broughton asked, though his tone showed he expected nothing.
Lyon shook his head, "No. You have heard nothing?"
"Nothing. Nothing. Nothing."
From habit he led Lyon into the dining room, where they had always sat to smoke before retiring, but the room showed no preparations for an evening of good cheer. It was as blank and forlorn as Broughton's face.
"Wherecan she be?" he demanded, stopping in his restless walk to face Lyon imperiously. "Ill as she was, with God knows what trouble on her mind and conscience, where can she have gone? Did she feel that it was impossible to live? Did she go to her death,--or to hide and wait forhim?"
"If you mean Lawrence, that's all nonsense," said Lyon, calmly. "I may tell you now--there were reasons why I couldn't before--that Lawrence is deeply in love with Miss Wolcott, who lives next door, and she returns his sentiment. I am satisfied that their formal engagement will be announced as soon as he is cleared of this accusation."
"What of that?" said Broughton dully. "He may be playing with a dozen women for all I know."
"He isn't that sort."
"He is the sort that keeps up a secret correspondence with another man's wife, and lures her from her home and her husband. That I know, and knowing that I can't believe very much good of him in other ways.Heknows where my wife is now."
"I don't believe it."
"Well, he will know before I do," said Broughton, sullenly. "She has fled because she was connected with that affair in some way. It is even possible that she discovered I was watching. And if she hasn't destroyed herself, she has gone where she can wait for him."
Lyon felt helpless. The unreason of jealousy comes so near to insanity that argument and common sense are helpless before it. It can only be mastered by authority or by an appeal to the emotions, and Lyon did not feel himself in position to offer either to a man of Woods Broughton's age and personal force.
"Well, good night," he said lamely. "I'm going to bed."
"Go," said Broughton. "There is no reason why you should not sleep. I shall not sleep until I know where she is. Good God, this very minute she may be a helpless prisoner in some terrible den of infamy. She may be suffering,--though she cannot suffer as I do."
Lyon got away from him and went up to the little back bedroom which had come to seem so homelike in the short week he had been there. Kittie's curtains were both down--of course. Her faithfulness to their code even to this disastrous end struck him as pathetic.
"Dear little girl," he murmured, and blew a kiss across the night to her. One can venture so much more in the night than in the unsympathetic blaze of common day.
How much farther he might have gone on his excursion into sentiment can only be guessed, for just then his eye was caught and his mind diverted by something which, in a moment, took on more than a momentary importance. It was nothing more portentous than a lighted window in Miss Wolcott's home. The curious thing about it was that he had never seen a light in that second-story window before. Every evening when he had looked for Kittie's signal. Miss Wolcott's house had presented a perfectly blank and unobservant side to his view. Now some one was occupying a room which corresponded with his own room in this neighboring house. While his eye lingered on the light in idle speculation, he saw and distinctly recognized Miss Wolcott as she passed between the window and the light in the room. The sight was not in itself startling and yet he started and metaphorically rubbed his eyes.Miss Wolcott wore a hat. Instinctively he looked at his watch. It lacked a few minutes of eleven. Eleven o'clock in Waynscott was an hour when respectable householders went to bed, unless they went on a journey. Was it possible that Miss Wolcott was going out, alone and unattended, at this hour? He had the greatest confidence in the innocence of her intentions, whatever they were, but the story which she had told had not given him the same prejudice in favor of her discretion. What foolish plan might she have in her mind now? Why had she said nothing of her intention when he left her an hour ago? Distinctly worried, he reached for the overcoat and hat which he had thrown down on a chair in his room, and then went back to the window. If she was really bent on a midnight errand, he would escort her, whether she liked it or not. He would quietly watch for the moment of her departure, and then join her at her own front door.
But while he waited, another head crossed the lighted field of the window,--not Miss Wolcott's. She was not going alone, then, for this woman also wore a hat, and about her neck was the graceful line of an upturned fur collar. He did not know Miss Wolcott's friends,--he knew, indeed, very few women in Waynscott,--and yet something teasingly familiar about the lift of the head, the turn of the neck, puzzled him. Did he know her?
And then suddenly, the solution of it all flashed upon him. That delicately turned head belonged to Mrs. Broughton. Dolt, idiot, that he was, not to have reasoned it out before!
Mrs. Broughton, fleeing from Miss Elliott's by way of the secret panel in the fence, had taken shelter at Miss Wolcott's. What more natural? What more simple? And now, under cover of the night, she was preparing to continue her flight. In a flash, without waiting for logical processes, Lyon saw what he must do.
He hurled himself downstairs three steps at a time and out of the front hall. As he had expected, a carriage was waiting before Miss Wolcott's door. He went up to the driver, ostentatiously looking at his watch.
"When does the train leave?" he asked.
"Eleven forty-five," the man answered.
"Oh, then there is time enough," he said easily, and ran back to the house.
Broughton, who had been startled by Lyon's noisy run through the hall, was awaiting him at the front door.
"What's up?" he asked.
Lyon realized that the moment had come for the autocratic dominance of the sane mind. He put his hand impressively on Broughton's shoulder and faced him sternly, imperiously.
"Mr. Broughton, if I could put you at this moment face to face with your wife, what would be your attitude toward her?"
"What do you mean?" gasped Broughton, too bewildered by this new manner to really grasp Lyon's words.
"Would you meet her with accusation, doubt, and coldness? Or will you hide that unworthy side of your thought and let her see the love that you really feel?"
Broughton's face darkened.
"If she can satisfy my doubts--"
"She must never know them! And this for your sake more than hers. Think, man. How will you go through the years that lie before you if you must spend them with the constant knowledge that you once failed her, that she knows it, and that she can nevermore be proud of you or sure of you? You will have made it necessary for her to forgive you. Can you stand the humiliation of that knowledge?"
"She to forgive me?" stammered Broughton. "For what?"
"For doubting her. You should have believed in her against every appearance. If you want to hold your head up before her, never let her know what traitorous doubts you have harbored."
"How do you know that they are traitorous?" asked Broughton, struggling for a grip on his past passions.
"Because--now listen and understand exactly what this means,--because your wife, when she fled from Miss Elliott's, took refuge with Miss Wolcott, who is Lawrence's fiancée. Can you believe for the thousandth part of an instant that she would have gone to that girl if there was anything between her and Lawrence? It is unthinkable. Now hold that one fact firmly,--do not forget it for a moment,--and come with me to your wife."
He crushed Broughton's hat upon the bewildered man's head and dragged him out and across the dividing yards to Miss Wolcott's door. The whole episode had only taken a few moments, but he breathed more freely when he had actually got Broughton to the steps of the other house before the women came out. There was no time to spare, however. The doorknob turned softly. The door opened noiselessly and the two women stood there, cloaked and veiled, ready to set forth. Instead, Lyon drew Broughton inside, as though the door had been opened for the purpose of admitting them.
"I must beg that you give me a few moments, Miss Wolcott," Lyon began.
But the need of making any explanation was taken from him. The lady who at their first appearance had shrunk back of Miss Wolcott, suddenly gave a little inarticulate cry and threw herself upon Broughton's breast.
"Woods! Oh, Woods! Where did you come from?" she cried and burst into tears.
Lyon held his breath in suspense, but it is not in masculine nature to thrust away a beautiful sobbing woman. Broughton's arms lifted to enclose her, and his voice murmured, not ungently: "There, there, Grace! Control yourself!"
Lyon turned to Miss Wolcott, trying to leave the reunited husband and wife in as much privacy as the situation admitted.
"What was your plan? Where were you going?" he asked, urgently.
She had thrown back her veil, and her face was pale, but resolute.
"We were trying to escape," she said.
"From whom?"
"That terrible detective. He had found Mrs. Broughton. He went to see her yesterday and told her--" She stopped abruptly, and a shudder shook her visibly.
"What did he tell her? In charity, let me know."
"He told her she would have to appear as a witness at the trial and give testimony against me.
"Against you!" The room reeled before Lyon's eyes, but he pulled himself together. "Let me dismiss your carriage and then you must tell me what you mean. It was wild of you to try to run away. In the first place, you would not be able to take any train without being stopped. The police know of Mrs. Broughton's disappearance and are watching all outgoing trains, of course. Besides,--but let us dispose of the carriage, first."
He went to' the door and dismissed the coachman. As he came back, he saw that Broughton had disengaged his wife's arms and was facing her with that jealous sternness in his eyes that Lyon had dreaded.
"But to leave my home secretly, at the urging of--of--ofanyone, was not what I have a right to expect of my wife. I have reason to demand an explanation."
The tears were still sparkling on Mrs. Broughton's lashes, but she looked up at him with a steady glance.
"I am not your wife," she said quietly.
THE surprising statement made by Mrs. Broughton was in fact so surprising that it was difficult for her hearers to grasp at once what was involved in it.
"What do you mean?" asked Broughton. But already the sternness of the righteous judge began to drain away from his face, leaving instead the uneasiness of the lover who has no ground on which to make a claim of rights. "You say--what do you mean?"
That she meant something was very clear, and Lyon, glancing swiftly at Miss Wolcott, saw that to her, at least, the meaning was quite plain. She was troubled, anxious, but not surprised. Indeed, it was she who now took the situation in hand.
"If you will come into the library, we can talk without arousing my grandfather," she said, in guarded tones. "If he hears voices he will come down, and then--"
It was unnecessary to complete the sentence. They followed her into the library, and she closed the great doors softly. Broughton was still looking dazed. Mrs. Broughton, who had not spoken since she made the startling declaration that she was not his wife, sank into a low chair. Her eyes were lowered and her hands were pressed hard together, but there was steadiness and self-control in her attitude. Lyon drew a little apart where he could observe them both.
"Are you strong enough to tell them your story, or shall I?" asked Edith Wolcott, quietly.
"No, no, I must tell him. That at least is his right--and mine," Mrs. Broughton answered quickly. She freed herself from her wraps, and turned toward Woods Broughton. During all that followed she looked straight at him, talked to him. The others in the room did not seem to enter her consciousness. It was obvious that her one concern was to be understood by the man she loved.
"When you first met me," she said, "you knew that though I was not living with my husband, there was no legal separation. He had been away from me so long that I did not think of him very often, and had long ceased to consider that I had any wifely obligations to him. But legally I was his wife."
"You got a divorce before we were married," said Broughton, staring at her.
She went on with her story as though he had not spoken.
"The only ground on which I could obtain a divorce under the laws of this state was that of desertion. Do you understand? I could make no other charge against him. Unless I could secure a separation on that ground, I could not get one at all. I could not marry again."
"Yes, but he had been away twelve years. That surely was sufficient."
"He had been away twelve years, but--he did not wish to give me an opportunity to get my freedom. So--he wrote to me from time to time."
"He wrote to you! What of that?"
"It was enough to defeat the claim of desertion. He would always offer to provide a home for me if I would come and live with him. He did not expect me to consider it, or, I am sure, wish me to, but he took the attitude of willingness, so as to forestall any attempt I might make to set myself free. He made the same offer, ironically as I well knew, when he first went away. He renewed it whenever he wrote. I did not understand at the time what his object was. I thought it only a petty form of annoyance. But when I went to Arthur Lawrence to ask him to take up the matter of my divorce, I found out what William's purpose had been. His letters made it technically impossible for me to assert that he had deserted me."
"Wait a moment. You say you went to Arthur Lawrence. It was Warren Fullerton who conducted your suit."
"After Arthur had refused to take it. He told me that under the circumstances I could not sustain the charge of desertion without--without perjury. He tried to persuade me to follow some other course, and when I persisted he refused to act for me."
Broughton was leaning forward, following every word with absorbed attention. His eyes never left her face.
"How did Lawrence know about these letters?" he asked.
"William always sent them under cover to Arthur. He wanted to make sure, not only that I received them, but that Arthur should know I received them, so that he could call upon him to testify to the fact if he should ever wish to. All this I have learned since. Then I only knew that Arthur saw a legal difficulty and refused to prepare the papers."
"Was that his only reason for opposing your divorce? There was no--personal feeling?"
"Personal feeling? Why, no, how could there be? He would have been glad to help me. He always disliked William. But he foresaw trouble, and advised me earnestly to wait until some other plan could be considered. I would not, and went to Mr. Fullerton."
She shuddered involuntarily as she mentioned the name, but after only an instant's pause went on.
"From what I had learned from Arthur about the law of the case, I determined to say nothing to him about the letters. I told him that William had left me twelve years before and never been heard from, and on that statement the divorce was granted without difficulty. Then you and I were married."
She paused, but they all felt that it was only to gather strength to go on, and no one spoke.
"The first intimation I had that there was going to be trouble came a year ago last summer. Mr. Fullerton was in New York and he came to see me. He wanted money. I could not understand at first, but he soon made it unmistakably clear. He had found out about the letters, and he said that the divorce was therefore fraudulent and without effect, and my marriage void."
Her voice fluttered as though, in spite of her will, it was slipping away from her control. Broughton groaned.
"Why didn't you tell me, Grace? Good heavens, that was a matter for a man to deal with."
"I didn't dare. I was afraid to have you know, I was afraid of the scandal,--of your scorn,--of everything. I was simply terrified out of my senses. I couldn't think straight. I only wanted to keep it from ever coming out,--to hush it up and keep it unknown. So--I sold some jewels and paid him the money he wanted and he went away. But I was sick for a month,--do you remember?"
"If you had only told me!"
"But what could you have done? There would have been nothing possible but to put me away,--and the thought of that was worst of all. Or I thought so then."
Broughton stared. He was just beginning to see the far-reaching effects involved in the situation.
"I hoped the matter was settled," Mrs. Broughton resumed, "but a few months later I received a letter from him, asking for more money. That was the beginning. They came after that every few months, and I lived in constant dread. He always wrote very politely, very guardedly, but I knew what he meant and I did not dare refuse him."
"One moment. How had he learned about those letters? From Lawrence?"
"No. William had seen the newspaper reports and had written to him, giving him the facts. So Mr. Fullerton said, and I don't know how else he could have found out. Arthur would never have spoken of it. I got so desperate that finally I wrote to Arthur."
"Ah!"
"He was the only one who knew the whole case. He knew about the letters, had known William, and had warned me that William would make trouble, and that I was going to build up unhappiness for myself. I wrote him what had happened. He urged me to tell you frankly the whole situation and to pay Fullerton nothing more. But I could not bring myself to the point of telling you. Perhaps I would if--if you had been as kind as you were at first, but I thought you were growing cold and distant, and--I could not speak. Then you went away on that sudden trip. I thought it would be a good chance to see Arthur and have a talk with him, and perhaps to appeal to Mr. Fullerton's mercy. So I came out here the moment you had gone. Were you surprised to find me gone when you returned?"
"Never mind that now," said Broughton. "Let me get your story straight first, and then I'll give you mine. When you came to Waynscott you went to Lawrence's office first, didn't you? That was Monday forenoon?"
"Yes," she said, looking a little surprised at the form of his question. "I went there, and he was very positive that I must not see Mr. Fullerton. He said he would see him for me and 'settle' him, but I was afraid to let him meet him,--Arthur has a quick temper and he was very angry,--you can't think how angry. You know I have known Arthur Lawrence since a boy. He has really been the best friend a woman ever could have, and now-- Oh, I can't go on. It is so terrible."
"But you must, Grace. It is very important. Tell me exactly what happened and where you went."
"When I left Arthur I went to Miss Elliott's. I knew she would be glad to have me stay with her a few days, and that was all I intended, at that time. I had promised Arthur not to see Mr. Fullerton, but after I left him, it seemed to me that I simply had to have it out with him. I couldn't believe that it would be impossible for me to move him in a personal interview. I found out he lived at the Wellington and went there. He was not in, but the boy said he would be there in the evening, so I went again."
"That was a mad thing to do."
"I was mad. I could think of nothing but my own troubles. And I had so firmly persuaded myself that in a personal interview I could somehow move him to mercy that I took the chances without considering anything else."
It was perhaps an accident, but she glanced at Lyon. He had not moved. Intensely interested as he was in reaching certain points, he knew that to get the story they must let her tell it in her own way, without interruption.
"I did find him. I had a terrible half hour with him. Oh, he was a man to fear. He was polite and smiling,--and hard as ice. He was not even sarcastic. He did not show any feeling. It was merely a question of money. He said it wasn't pleasant to get money from a woman in this way, but a woman's money was as good as a man's, and since I had money, and since I had put myself in a box where my whole life and reputation were at his mercy, it would be sheer foolishness on his part not to use his opportunity. Those were his very words. Oh, it was right to kill him,--it was right!"
"Grace!" gasped Broughton, half rising. "You don't mean--Good heavens!"
"Ididn't kill him," she said, steadily. "But I want you to understand that--that whoever killed him was removing from the earth a cruel, wicked man. I saw I was making no impression on him and I left the Wellington. He was going out that evening, and he accompanied me for a block or two. I told him to leave me, and finally he did. I returned to Miss Elliott's,--"
"Do you know at what hour?" asked Lyon, quickly.
"It was half past eight when I got into my room."
Lyon unconsciously sighed. That statement. If it accorded with the facts, would completely knock out the theory he had cherished so long, based on the assumption that the woman who had fled across the street at ten o'clock was Mrs. Broughton. There was something so convincing in her manner of telling the details of her story that it was very hard to believe she was not presenting the facts truthfully. Yet certainly it was a curious tangle that had mixed her movements on that evening so confusingly with those of Fullerton and of the other woman who had also been entangled with his murder.
"The next morning," she resumed, "I saw the news of his--death in the papers. You cannot imagine my relief. It was as though a terrible weight had been lifted. I wanted to fly. I was wild with joy. Then, just as I was on the point of returning home, came the news of the arrest of Arthur Lawrence. It was a terrible blow. I felt that he had done it for me--because of what I had told him in the morning,--and that I was really guilty not only of Fullerton's death,--I don't think I should have minded that much,--but of Arthur's. My nerves collapsed under the shock and I could not be moved. Gradually, as I saw how little actual proof there was against him, some composure returned. Perhaps, after all, he might not be convicted. No one but myself knew how angry he had been with Mr. Fullerton that day. I was trying, oh, so hard, to get enough of my strength back to get away, to go somewhere, anywhere, when yesterday a man came to see me,--a Mr. Bede."
"What did he come for?"
"What did he want?"
Lyon and Broughton asked their questions simultaneously, as she paused in her speech.
Mrs. Broughton glanced irresolutely at Edith Wolcott. That self-controlled young woman had been sitting silent, with her chin in her palm, listening to Mrs. Broughton's story with sympathetic attention. It was obvious the story was already well known to her. Now she answered the men's questions.
"Mr. Bede had discovered that Mrs. Broughton was at Fullerton's rooms that evening. It seems he had also discovered or guessed that I was there. He trapped her into admitting that she had seen me in the hall when she left the building with Fullerton. He told her that he would have to have her subpœnaed as a witness, to tell about seeing me. He didn't know that we were old friends, or he would not have said that, perhaps. As soon as he left she came to me, secretly, and told me the whole thing. We decided that the best thing would be to get away from Waynscott, away from the country, until this thing was settled. Now that you have spoiled our plan, what are you going to do with us instead? The responsibility is with you, now!"
"I will take the responsibility of caring for my wife," Broughton said, in a ringing voice. He rose and shook himself, as if throwing off some intolerable burden. "Oh, Grace, Grace, if you had only told me the whole in the beginning! But I will not blame you now. You have had a terrible time. Now I will try to make it all up to you. We will do anything you like,--go anywhere you like,--"
"You forget," she said, quietly, "I cannot go back to you at all. I am not your wife."
She put her hands up and pressed her fingers hard against her closed eyes.
"All the trouble has come from that,--all the trouble for me first, and now for you, and for poor Arthur in prison and for Edith here. I tried to take what I had no right to and I lied to get it. Oh, do you think I could have laid my whole heart bare to you as I have done tonight if I were not through with all that false claim? I have told you everything as though I were on my deathbed, because I can never see you again. Somewhere in the world, watching his chance to strike, William Vanderburg is waiting. I will never go back to him,--never, so help me God,--but while he lives, I will never dare to take any happiness that may offer. He is biding his time. Oh, I did wrong, but I have paid for it. I am paying now, and will pay over and over every year that I live."
"Dear Mrs. Broughton," said Lyon, gently, "I can at least relieve you of that uncertainty. William Vanderburg is dead. I was with him when he died."
She stared at him for a moment as though she had not understood his words. Then, with a sighing breath, she sank back in a dead faint. This astonishing statement, following the long strain of her confession, was too much for her nerves.