The first thing to do, I saw clearly, was to go back to Barker's office and verify my recollections of the place, particularly of the apple peelings. Fortune favored me. The rooms had been locked up the night before by the police, and were therefore undisturbed, and the chief did not hesitate, under the present conditions, to give me the keys.
"Our work is done," he said complacently. "The murderer is found."
I didn't remind him that the force had had precious little to do with putting Eugene Benbow behind bars. I took the keys and went to the place of the tragedy.
I let myself into the office, and locked the door after me, so that I might be undisturbed during my examination. It looked quite as bare and unattractive as I remembered it. Here was the chair and table where I had sat examining my mother's locket when I had received that curious impression of being watched. I examined the glass door between the two rooms and sat down in the chair which had been drawn up near it, in the inner office. It commanded a full view of the outer office; and the curtain which fell over the glass made the fact that one pane was broken unnoticeable. Here the assassin sat and watched me, and here he had sat when Barker entered. I paused a moment to be thankful that the light in the outer office had been good!
Beside the chair, in a waste-basket, was the heap of apple parings I had noticed. It needed only a glance to show me that they had curled and withered and turned dark since I saw them. Then they were freshly cut,--no question about that. The man who had sat there waiting and watching had been munching apples. And Eugene Benbow did not like apples!
I carefully gathered up the parings and spread them out on the table. They showed two colors. Plainly he had sampled different varieties. Then I glanced at the basket of apples which still stood on the table. It was like the three in the other room. I picked up one of the apples--and whistled. Cut sharply into the tough skin was the imprint of teeth! The murderer would seem to have tested this apple by the primitive method of biting it; and he had not liked the flavor. I picked up another. The mark of teeth was on this also, and even plainer. It struck me that the mark showed irregularities that ought to help in identifying the owner. They were evidently crowded teeth, with no space between them, and on both sides the crowding had forced two of the teeth outward in a wedge. If a man could be identified by his finger print, why not by the print of his teeth? Especially when he had teeth so peculiar. I hastily locked the office, postponing further examination of the rooms until I should have had taken measures to preserve the records of the two bitten apples. I had an idea that my dentist could help me there. As I came out into the hall, I saw a man with gray hair and beard--a countryman, I gathered at first glance,--who stood looking at the door of the Western Improvement Company in a dazed kind of way. I passed him, and then hesitated, wondering if I should, in common humanity, speak to him. He looked bewildered or ill. But he paid no attention to me or my halt, and I walked on, thinking that he was probably merely one of the morbidly curious who are attracted to the scene of any crime. It seemed strange, afterwards, when I realized that I had had the chance offered me of getting into touch with the man who was going to be so important a link in my chain of evidence, and that I had almost lost the chance. But as it turned out, it was as well. But I must tell things in order.
I found Dr. Kenton more than ready to be interested. He was an enthusiast in his profession, and though his dissertations on acclusial contacts and marsupial elevations (I know that's wrong, but it sounds like that)--though these things bored me when I wanted to make a sitting short, I was now glad to draw upon his professional interest.
"I want you to look at the marks of teeth in these apples," I said. "Distinct, aren't they?"
"Beautiful! Beautiful!" he murmured.
"Can you make a wax model like that, so as to hold that record permanently?"
"Certainly. Nothing easier."
"Then I wish you would. Could you, perhaps, make a set of teeth that would fit those marks?"
He examined the apples carefully, and nodded his head. "I can."
"Then I commission you to do that also. Should you say there was anything peculiar about those teeth? Anything identifying?"
"Yes. Certainly. The jaw is uncommonly narrow for an adult--"
"But you are sure it is an adult?" I asked anxiously. The possibility that a child might have been sampling Barker's apples struck me for the first time. But Dr. Kenton reassured me.
"It is an adult, is it not?"
"I don't know who it is. What I want to do is to use this record to identify the man who bit these apples,--let's call him Adam for the present. I am hoping that his inherited taste for the fatal fruit may in time lead to his fall. In other words, Dr. Kenton, I am trying to identify a criminal of whom I have, at present, no information except that I believe him to be the man who put his teeth into these apples. If I find my suspicions focusing upon anyone in particular, I shall call upon you to examine his teeth. You understand, of course, that all this is in professional confidence and in the cause of justice."
Dr. Kenton's eyes lighted up with a glow of triumph. He put out his hand.
"Let me shake hands with you. That is an idea which I have been urging through the dental journals for years. The insurance companies should require dental identification in any case of uncertainty. There is no means of identification so absolutely certain."
"I am glad to have you confirm my impression, Doctor. Now, you will have to take this impression before the fruit withers, and then I want you to come with me to the morgue and get an impression of the teeth of Alfred Barker, the man who was killed last night in the Phœnix Building."
"Did he bite that?" Dr. Kenton asked, with a tone of awe.
"I am sure he didnot. I want to be able to prove he did not, if that claim should be made." And I explained to him enough of the situation to secure his sympathetic understanding.
"I see. I see. Well, nothing will be easier to establish than whether he did or didn't. Whoever it was that left this record of an important part of his anatomy can be identified."
"If we can first catch him," I said.
"Surely. But it is an uncommon jaw,--narrow and prominent."
"Then I shall want to have you see my client Eugene Benbow. It will not be necessary for you to do anything more than to look at him, will it?"
"That will be enough. I can tell at a glance whether his jaw has this conformation. Or, find out who his dentist is, and I will get the information from him without his knowing it."
"Good. Now when can you go with me to the morgue? The sooner the better."
He made an appointment for later in the day, and I left him.
I hurried back to my office, for there were a number of things I had to see to before going to keep my appointment with Dr. Kenton. While I was yet a block away, I saw a young girl running down the street toward me. It did not occur to me that she was coming for me until she came near enough for me to recognize Jean Benbow. Then I hastened to meet her.
"What is it?" I asked anxiously.
"Come quick," she exclaimed--and even then I noticed that her swift run had not taken her breath away. "There's another one here to look after."
I didn't understand what she meant, but I saw that I was needed somewhere and I broke into a run myself. She guided me to Barney's stand. Behind it, on the ground, lay a man, with a beautiful woman--Katherine Thurston it was--dabbling his head with a wet handkerchief while Barney poured something out of a bottle into a tin dipper. (Barney could be guaranteed to keep some of the joy of life with him under the most desolating of conditions.)
"If you'll give him a sup of this, Mr. Hilton," he said confidentially, as I came up, "'tis all the poor cratur will need. A wooden leg is the divil for kneeling down, and I couldn't be asking a lady like that to handle the shtuff, ye understand."
I took the dipper and knelt down beside the fallen man,--and at once I recognized him as the rustic whom I had seen, looking dazed and bewildered, outside of Barker's office a few hours before. He opened his eyes, looked about vacantly, and made a feeble effort to rise.
"Drink this, and you will feel better," I said. (A sniff had convinced me that Barney's prescription wasn't half bad.) He drank it and coughed.
"He's coming around all right," I said. "What happened? Faint?"
Barney rubbed his chin dubiously. "I'm thinking he had his wits about him all right when he made out to faint jist at the time the ladies was coming by. If it wa'n't for the sinse he showed in that, I'd say he was a bit looney."
"Why?"
"He came down the street like a drunk man, but he wasn't drunk, begging the ladies' pardon, I could see that with me eyes shut. When he came by my bit of a stand he took hould of it with both hands and leaned across to look at me like I was his ould brother. 'He's dead,' he says. 'Who's dead,' says I. 'He's dead,' says he again. 'He's escaped.' And with that he fell to the ground, and if the ladies hadn't come out that minute from yon door, and yourself came running, it's meself that would have had to go down on me wooden knee that don't bend, to lift his head off the stones."
I spoke to the man, trying to learn his name and address. He was not unconscious but he seemed dazed or distrustful, and I could get nothing from him. By this time quite a group of people had gathered about us,--indeed, I wondered that they had not come before, but as a matter of fact the man had fallen only a few seconds before I came upon the scene. (Miss Thurston and Jean had been up to my office, it appeared, and had been coming away at that moment.)
The few words that Barney repeated from the man's dazed remarks before he fell, and the fact that I had seen him in the Phœnix Building of course made me feel that I wanted to keep him under my own surveillance until I could find out what, if anything, he knew of Barker. I therefore hurried a boy off to call a carriage, and when it came I helped the old man in and drove to the St. James Hospital.
"What's the matter with him?" I asked the attending physician--after I had got him installed.
"Hard to tell yet. He fainted on the street, you say? He is obviously exhausted, but what the cause or the outcome may be, I can't tell you yet."
"I want you to let me know the minute he is sufficiently restored to talk. And don't let anyone talk to him until I have seen him."
The doctor raised his eyebrows. I handed him my card.
"There is a possibility that he may know something about the Barker murder," I said.
The doctor looked surprised. "Why, I thought the murderer had confessed. Is there anything further to investigate?"
"We haven't all of the facts yet," I answered. "This man may know something, and again he may not. But don't let him talk to anyone until I have quizzed him. Will you see to that?"
"Oh, all right," he said easily. "The old fellow isn't likely to be quite himself until he has slept the clock around, I judge. I'll telephone you when he is able to see visitors. What makes you think he knows anything about it?"
"Oh, just a guess," I said.
Really, come to look at it, I had very slight foundation for the feeling I had that something was going to come out of the old man's revelations; but that isn't the first or the last time that an unreasoning impulse has been of more value to me than all the learning of the schools.
In the meantime, there were two people I wanted to question,--Al Chapman, the fellow who had told Mr. Ellison about the Frat Supper, and Mr. Garney, his tutor. I found Al Chapman at the Fraternity House, where I had gone to make inquiries for him. He was a serious, studious-looking boy, and he came to meet me with his finger still marking a place in a copy of Cicero's De Senectute.
"I am Mr. Hilton," I explained. "Mr. Ellison has asked me to act as Eugene Benbow's lawyer, and I wanted to ask you some questions about your birthday supper, you know."
He nodded, solemnly. Evidently he felt it a funereal occasion.
"I have no doubt that you can give me some useful information that will help to explain Benbow's actions," I said, as cheerfully as possible. "I wish you would tell me about the supper."
"We didn't think it would end like this!" he said tragically.
"It isn't ended yet. Perhaps you can help me make a good ending. Tell me what happened as far as you remember it."
"Nothing happened out of the ordinary until we were smoking after the banquet was over. Then we got to telling weird stories--and someone told of a mountain feud, you know, and how they carried it on for years and years as long as anybody was left, and Gene said he didn't blame anyone for feeling that way, and we talked back and forth, you know, some saying one thing and some another, and then one of the new fellows, Gregory, sung out to Gene and asked him when he was going to settle things with the man that shot his father. Of course the other fellows tried to squelch him,--they all knew how Gene would feel about that,--and Gene, he got stiff, the way he does when he doesn't want to go to smash, and said he didn't know where the wretch was, and Grig, the fool, says, 'Why, he's here in town. I saw him on Main street the other day, and a man pointed him out as the man that killed Senator Benbow.' Then somebody threw a pillow at Grig, and somebody else gave him a kick, and the fellows all began to talk loud and fast at once, and things passed off. I saw Gene tried to stick it out, because he didn't want to break up the shindig, but after a little while he slipped out and I knew he had gone. I have wished a thousand times that I had gone with him, but just then I thought he would rather be alone. Besides, I wanted to stay and help finish Grig off."
"Have you any idea how Benbow knew that Barker was in the Phœnix Building? Was that mentioned?"
"No, I didn't notice that it was. But that's on Main street, you know, and Grig said Main street."
"Yes, perhaps. Had Benbow been drinking,--enough to affect him?"
Young Chapman looked somewhat embarrassed. "We don't--usually--"
"But you did on this occasion?"
"Well, it was a birthday, you see,--rather special. And we only had two bottles--"
"Among how many?"
"Twelve of us."
"Well, if Benbow didn't have more than his share, that ought not to have knocked him senseless." I rose. I hadn't learned anything that Eugene had not already told me. Chapman rose, also, but looked anxious and unsatisfied.
"We've been wondering, sir," he broke out desperately. "Will they--I mean, is it--will he--be hung?"
(Isn't that like youth? Jumping to the end of the story, and considering life done at the first halt in the race!)
"If he should be convicted of murder in the first degree, that is the penalty," I said. "But he hasn't been tried yet, much less convicted."
"We didn't think on his birthday that he would go out like that," said Chapman, solemnly. "It's as Cicero says, even a young man cannot be sure on any day that he will live till nightfall."
I glanced at the book in his hand. His classical quotation was obviously new!
"Are you reading De Senectute?" I asked.
"I'm doing it in Latin,--yes, sir. This is an English translation which Mr. Garney lent me today to show me what a poor rendering I had made. This is translated by Andrew Peabody, and he makes it sound like English! Gene was doing it with me. I don't suppose we will ever do any more Latin together."
"Don't be too sure of that. You may both come to know more of Old Age, in Latin, in English, and in life, than you now guess. But I want to ask you another question. Do you know Benbow's associates or friends outside of the University?"
"What sort of associates?" asked Chapman, looking puzzled.
"Any sort,--good, bad or indifferent. Especially the bad and indifferent."
The young fellow looked offended. "Gene doesn't have associates of that kind," he said, indignantly.
"Nothing in his life to hide?"
"No,sir. You wouldn't ask that if you knew him."
"I'm glad to hear it," I said absently. Of course I was glad to hear it, but it did not help out the half-theory I was considering that Benbow might somehow have been "in" with Barker's murderer, though not himself the active assailant, and have been forced, by fear or favor, to protect the criminal. But there was no use committing myself to any theory until I had more material to work with.
"Will you come down to my office this afternoon and let me take your deposition about what happened at the birthday supper? I want to get that on record while it is clear in your memory. And will you bring two or three others,--fellows who were there and heard it all? If worst comes to worst, I want to be able to prove that he acted under the immediate impulse of passion aroused by what Gregory said."
"Yes, I see. I'll bring all of them, if you like."
"Bring as many as care to come. Be there by four, if you can," I said. That would give me time for my interview with Dr. Kenton.
I am not going to take time here to recount the details of that interview. Suffice it to say that Dr. Kenton made an examination of Barker's teeth which established clearly that he was not the man who had bit the apples I had found in his inner office. He took a wax impression which would be enough to make this fact indisputable thereafter.
While he was engaged in this task, I took occasion to ask the coroner about the articles which had been found in Barker's pockets. He was now willing to allow me to examine the little collection. In addition to the things which I had noticed in the evening, I now saw that there was a part of a worn time-table, and two empty envelopes with pencil figuring on the back. The small memorandum book which I had noticed before engaged my special attention. A number of the front pages had been torn out. On some of the other pages were pencil figurings which held no significance that I could see. On the last page was what appeared to be a summary. At any rate, I recognized in some of the figures the total of the scribbled sums in addition and subtraction on the inside pages. This list seemed to have some coherence, and as the coroner had doubts about the propriety of letting me have the book, I made a copy of it, as follows:
I recognized the names as those of towns in the State, but that was not very illuminating. From the time-table, Barker had probably swung around this circle, and the figures might mean the amount he had made at each town. Or they might mean something entirely different. I needed more light before forming even a conjecture on the subject.
As I was about to replace the memorandum book, I made a surprising discovery. Running my finger over the edges of the leaves to see whether any other pages were used, I discovered a folded piece of paper stuck between two of the leaves, which had evidently escaped the casual examination the book had previously received. I unfolded it. It was an uncashed check for $250, made payable to "bearer" and signed by Howard Ellison! The date was only three days old. All this I saw at a glance. I was about to replace the paper when the coroner, who had been examining the other articles, looked up and saw it. He took it from my hand and examined it in turn.
"That's curious," was his comment. "Ellison is young Benbow's uncle, isn't he?"
"Something of that sort."
"He will be two hundred and fifty dollars ahead, since Barker didn't cash the check, eh?"
"I suppose the check belongs to his estate, in any event."
"If he has one. No one has claimed the body."
"What will become of it, then?"
"Oh, there was money enough in his pockets to pay for his burial. The authorities will see to it in any case."
"By the way, if any relatives should turn up, I'd like to know. Do you know whether Barker was ever married?"
"I have never heard. If he was, his wife will probably let us hear from her. This will be reported in all the papers everywhere."
"True. There ought to be some news in a day or two, if she intends to come forward at all. I'll call your office up later."
When Kenton was through with his piece of work, I took him with me to the jail, and while I talked to Eugene for a few minutes, Dr. Kenton stood by and took observations.
When we were again outside he shook his head.
"He's not the man. I don't need to examine his teeth. The shape of the jaw is sufficient. Whom else do you suspect?"
"No one in particular. But if it wasn't Barker and wasn't Benbow, it was someone else. Who that someone is, I shall endeavor to find out."
But though I spoke firmly, I had to acknowledge to myself that so far I had very little to go on. Doubtless he had many enemies, as Clyde had suggested, but they did not come forward. Neither did his friends, if he had any. He was an isolated man. And yet he held many strings connected with other lives. That check of Ellison's meant something. But Gene had confessed! I felt that my only hope lay in finding out who, in Eugene's circle of acquaintances, would have good reason to wish Barker removed, would be unscrupulous enough to kill him,--and sufficiently influential with Eugene to induce him to take another's crime upon himself.
I gained little from the Frat boys, though I examined them all that afternoon, and had my clerk Fellows, who was a notary, take their formal depositions for future use if necessary. They all testified to the remarks made by Gregory and the disturbing effect which the incident had had upon Benbow, but when I tried to probe for outside entanglements, influences, or relations, I drew a blank every time. So far as his college mates knew, Gene Benbow was merely an exemplary student, more interested in his books than in athletics, but a "good fellow" for all that. It was evident that his shooting of Barker had filled them not only with surprise but with secret admiration. They hadn't expected it of him.
"I'll go to Mrs. Whyte," I said to myself. "She's a woman and his next door neighbor. More, she is Mrs. Whyte. She will know, if anyone does."
I went accordingly to Mrs. Whyte's that very same evening. On the way I stopped at Mr. Ellison's to interview Minnie, the maid. I didn't expect any very important evidence from her, but as she was the only one who could have seen Benbow after he left the banquet, and would know whether or not he was alone, I wanted to hear what she had to say.
She came into the library at Mr. Ellison's summons,--a very pretty girl, but also evidently a very timid girl. At each question I asked, she glanced mutely at Mr. Ellison, as if trying to read his wishes before venturing to answer. I guessed that Mr. Ellison might perhaps be somewhat severe with his servants, and that the timid Minnie would far rather lie than encounter his displeasure.
"This is nothing to frighten you, Miss Doty," I said gently, trying to draw her eyes to me from Mr. Ellison,--and without complete success. "I am not a policeman. I just want to ask a few questions that will help me to understand things myself. You were the only person in the house last night, I believe. Is that so?"
"Yes," she said, drawing a quick breath, and with a darting glance at Mr. Ellison.
"Yes, Gene and I were both dining out," Mr. Ellison put in, "and Mrs. Crosswell, the housekeeper, is away for the week. So Minnie was left in charge of the house."
"You weren't afraid?" I said smilingly, trying to ease her nervous tension. But the obtuse Ellison again took the word from her mouth.
"Why should she be afraid? I told her to lock up the house and let no one in."
"Can you hear the door-bell from your room?" I asked, remembering Jean Benbow's vain efforts to make herself heard at the front door. Minnie had evidently been gossiping in the neighborhood, instead of guarding the house!
"Yes--not always," she stammered, nervously.
"You didn't hear Miss Benbow ring."
"Not at first," she said in a low voice. I guessed she was afraid of a scolding for being out of the house, and shaped my next question so as to spare her an explicit statement.
"It was you who let Miss Benbow in, wasn't it?"
"Yes," she murmured, hardly above a breath. Her eyes fell, and the color came and went in her face.
"Did you leave the house at all after letting her in?"
"No," she said quickly, lifting her eyes. I was sure she spoke the truth that time.
"Then can you tell me when Mr. Benbow came in?"
"No, sir. I--I don't know."
"Could he get in without your knowing?"
"He has a latch-key to the side door,--the library door," said Mr. Ellison. "He uses the library for his study."
"Then you wouldn't know whether he came in at all last night?" I said to Minnie.
"Oh, yes, he came in," she said quickly.
"How do you know?"
"I--I saw him--go out," she stammered, with sudden confusion.
"When?"
"I--didn't notice."
"But you saw him leave the house?"
"Yes, sir. He came down--he went down the steps from the library, and went off."
"Off to the street, you mean?"
"Yes, sir."
"Did he speak to you?"
"Oh, no, sir. He didn't see me."
"Where were you?"
She hesitated and stammered. "In the dining room." I felt sure that this time she was not telling the truth, but Mr. Ellison unconsciously came to her support.
"There is a bay window in the dining room which overlooks the library entrance," he volunteered.
"Was Mr. Benbow alone?"
"Yes, sir."
"You are sure about that?"
"Oh, yes, he was quite alone," she said positively.
"You didn't see any stranger here during the evening, either with Mr. Benbow or otherwise?"
"No, sir, there wasn't anybody here at all," she said with a definiteness that was convincing.
I let her go at that,--to her evident relief. I had seen the trepidation of perfectly innocent witnesses too often to attach any great weight to her nervousness, but at the same time I had a feeling that she had not been perfectly frank. But probably the fact that she had been out of the house when she was supposed to be in it was enough to give her that atmosphere of something concealed.
"That confirms Mr. Benbow's statement that he came home for his revolver," I said to Ellison, who, I was sure, had listened carefully, though he had made a show of indifference and inattention. "I thought possibly someone might have seen him and talked with him who could throw some light on the matter, but it seems not. How is Miss Benbow?"
"Jean? Oh, she's all right. No business to be here, mixing up in things that concern men, but what can you expect nowadays? Of course she had to come interfering."
"If you think she would care to see me,--"
He shook his head impatiently. "Miss Thurston is with her. They are talking things over for all they are worth."
I rose to depart. Then the thought which had been in the background of my mind all along came forward. After all, I might as well be the one to tell him.
"Mr. Ellison, they found a check signed by you in Barker's pocket. You will probably hear of it, if you didn't already know."
He puckered his eyelids and looked at me narrowly.
"Where did you get that bit of information?"
"I saw the check."
"A check payable to Barker?"
"No, it was made payable to bearer."
"Indeed?" He laughed a little maliciously. "I wonder how Barker got hold of it!"
"Barker had ways of getting money," I said drily. There was no reason why he should take me into his confidence, of course--and, judging from what I knew of Barker, probably there was every reason why he should not,--but his reserve was somewhat tantalizing! It would have been natural for him to mention the fact of his own acquaintance or business dealings with Barker when he first interviewed me,--unless they were of the nature that people don't discuss. Had Barker been levying blackmail on him also? In spite of his inscrutability, I was sure my information had disturbed him, though he was not surprised. Had he been nerving himself for the discovery? I reflected that ease, long continued, makes people soft. Mr. Ellison was probably less fit to meet trouble than Jean.
I went down the street to the next house, where Mr. Whyte and my dear white-haired friend were sitting on the front porch, taking in the pleasant evening air. (It was early in October.) They appeared to have been sitting quiet in the sympathetic silence of the long married, but from the way in which Whyte wrung my hand I could see that the quiet covered a good deal of emotional strain.
"Whatcanbe done for the poor boy?" was Mrs. Whyte's first question.
"I don't know yet. I am simply gathering the facts at present."
"It's a terrible business," said Mr. Whyte. "Ellison tells me that he has asked you to defend Gene, but I don't see that the boy has left you much legal ammunition. He confesses the shooting."
"The law will have to take cognizance of the facts attending the shooting,--his youth, the provocation, the circumstances. I don't despair. But I want to know everything possible,--his temperament, his associations, his friends. You can help me here, Mrs. Whyte."
"How? Dear knows I'll be glad to."
"Has he ever talked about avenging his father's death? Has that been on his mind?"
"He never spoke of it. I don't believe it was on his mind. You see, he was only ten years old at the time, and though it must, of course, have been a great shock, he was really nothing but a child, and a child soon forgets. Senator Benbow's death killed his wife, but I don't think Gene realizes that. Mr. Ellison took Eugene to live with him and put Jean into a good boarding-school, and they both have been happy enough. Eugene has grown up just like other boys, except that he has been more alone. I have made a point of having him over here a good deal, just because he was growing up with no women about, over at Mr. Ellison's. Of course his sister has been here a good deal, holidays and so on, but that's different."
"Did he go anywhere else, so far as you know?"
"I know that he did not. He is too shy and reserved to care much for society. He loves to read and dream, and aside from his college mates, I don't believe that he has any friends that you could call intimate. In fact, I can't flatter myself that he really cared to come over here to see me, except when Katherine Thurston was here visiting me."
"He had the good taste then to admire Miss Thurston?"
Mr. Whyte chuckled across the gloom. "He has been her devoted slave for a year past."
"Now, Carroll," Mrs. Whyte began in protest, but before she could give it further expression we were interrupted by an approaching visitor. Clyde came swinging up the walk with an eager stride.
"Good evening!" he called cheerily, lifting his hat. "What a perfect evening it is! I don't wonder you are all out of doors. Evening, Hilton." His vigorous, even happy, manner, was most alien to our mood. It struck us like laughter at a funeral.
"We were just speaking of poor Gene Benbow," said Mrs. Whyte, with delicate reproof in her voice.
"Oh, yes, of course. He was a friend of yours, wasn't he?" he said, toning his manner down to a different key from that in which he had come.
"Was and is," said Whyte simply.
"Yes, of course," said Clyde, hastily, trying to right himself with the current. "Poor fellow, as you say. He must have brooded over his father's death a great deal to have such a purpose develop in his mind. But Barker richly deserved his fate, for that matter."
"Oh, I'm not wasting any sympathy on Barker," said Mrs. Whyte, and something in her crisp tones told me that Clyde was not whollypersona gratawith the warm-hearted lady. "It's Gene I'm thinking about."
"Of course. Naturally," he said, quickly. Then, as the pause was beginning to be awkward, he asked tentatively, "I wonder if I might see Miss Thurston."
"She isn't at home," said Mrs. Whyte (and I was sure from her voice that she found a certain satisfaction in denying his request). "She has gone to spend the night with Jean."
"With whom?" he asked sharply.
"With Jean Benbow,--Eugene's sister, you know. She is here at Mr. Ellison's,--came up home last night to celebrate their birthday, poor child."
"This thing has been an awful blow to Katherine," said Mr. Whyte, taking his cigar from his mouth, and dropping his voice. "I didn't know she had it in her to feel so deeply for a friend's trouble. She is always so self-possessed and calm that I suppose I thought she had no feelings. But, by Jove, she was crushed. I never saw anyone look so overwhelmed with grief. She couldn't have felt it more if she had been Eugene's mother."
"Heavens, Carroll, Katherine isn't as old asthat!" said Mrs. Whyte impatiently.
"Well, then, his sweetheart!" said Whyte, half-laughing. "I won't say as his sister. His sister was twice as plucky and sensible about it as Katherine was, for that matter.Shedidn't go all to pieces."
"Miss Thurston is very sympathetic," said Clyde, in a tone which did not wholly match his words. He rose and stood for a moment, hesitating, as though he had not yet said what he came to say.
"They have been to see me again to-day about running for mayor on the citizens' ticket," he said at last, half-deprecatingly. "I--I almost think I will let them put my name up." (He glanced at me with a smile as he spoke, knowing that I would understand his new attitude in the matter.) "That is,--unless my friends dissuade me."
"Good enough!" cried Whyte. "Go ahead! We'll work for you to a man."
"I wondered what you and Mrs. Whyte would say about it,--and Miss Thurston," he added, haltingly.
"I can tell you that," said Mrs. Whyte, in her most decisive tones. "Katherine won't care a pin who is mayor of Saintsbury until she knows what is to come to Gene Benbow."
"Yes, of course," said Clyde, uncomfortably. "I'm awfully sorry about all this distress. If there is anything at all that I can do,--"
"Thank you," said Mrs. Whyte, somewhat loftily. "I'll tell Katherine."
And Clyde departed, knowing that in this quarter at least he was not quite forgiven for being alive and free and ambitious while Gene Benbow was lying in prison. I think that I, though his newest friend, was the one most sympathetic toward him that evening. I could understand how the relief, the new feeling of security, which had followed Barker's death, had made the whole world seem new-made for him. Besides, he had no such feeling of personal friendship for Gene as the rest of the group had.
"I'll tell Katherine all right," said Mrs. Whyte, somewhat maliciously, I thought. "Oh, yes, I'll tell Katherine that he came around to talk about the political situation, this evening of all times."
"Now, Clara," said her husband pacifically. "The nomination is an important matter, and we can't stop living just because Gene Benbow is in trouble."
"He has never liked Gene," said Mrs. Whyte, defensively. "Whenever he finds Gene here with Katherine, or finds that he has taken her out walking, or anything like that, he just stands and glowers."
"Perhaps he is jealous," said Whyte, with a subdued chuckle.
"He has no right to be jealous. If Katherine enjoys Gene's society, she has a perfect right to choose it. Not that there is anything ofthatsort between them! Katherine is not old enough to be Gene's mother, but she is older, and she would never allow anything of that sort to happen. Besides, if she had wanted Kenneth Clyde, she could have had him years ago."
"I wonder why she has never married," said Whyte, blowing smoke rings into the air.
"Too much sense," said Mrs. Whyte crisply. Then, quite obviously recollecting that this was not the view to present to me, she added, significantly, "When Mr. Right comes, it will be a different matter."
"She wouldn't have a word to throw to the rightest Mr. Right in the world just now," said Mr. Whyte. "She is taking Gene's trouble pretty hard. But that little Jean is a wonder! She will be a heart-wrecker all right."
"Now, Carroll, don't put any such ideas into her head. She is a mere child."
"She is Gene's twin," said Mr. Whyte, shrewdly. "If his devotion to Katherine is to be treated respectfully, you can't act as though Jean were just out of the kindergarten. I'll bet she has had a broader experience with love-affairs than Katherine has."
"You don't know anything about it," was Mrs. Whyte's crushing response, and after that the conversation became more general.
I had listened with the greatest interest, not only because of the light which the conversation threw on the character of the boy whom I wished to understand, but because of the vivid interest in Jean Benbow which my brief encounter with her had aroused. She was, as Mrs. Whyte said, merely a child, and even youthful for her years, but a sure instinct told me that she would be past mistress of the game where hearts are trumps. I was soon to prove this surmise correct! Young Garney, Gene's Latin tutor, fell a victim at sight. By chance (if there be chance, which I sometimes doubt,) that affair began in my own office--and ended where none of us would have guessed. I had asked Garney to come to my office, to see if he could tell me anything helpful about Gene, when Jean stumbled in,--or ricochetted in, rather. Jean never did anything that suggested stumbling. But that interview was too important to be dismissed in a few words. I shall have to tell it in detail, later on. But before I come to that, there was a strange event which I must record. It befell that same evening, after I left the Whytes.
I have noticed that ideas usually come to me at the moment of awaking. The next morning I came back to a consciousness of Gene Benbow's affairs with a perplexity which was momentarily illuminated by the thought, "Why don't I look up Barker's home? He must have been staying somewhere, and the people there may know something about him."
Why hadn't I thought of that before? However, yesterday had been a pretty busy day as it was. I turned at once to the city directory, and then to the telephone directory. There was no indication in either that such a person as Alfred Barker lived in Saintsbury. The Western Land and Improvement Co. appeared in the telephone directory, but that of course was no help. I called up the police department and asked if they could tell me where Barker had lived. Yes, they had investigated,--26 Angus Avenue, was the number.
"And, by the way," my informant added, "Barker's body has been claimed."
"By whom?" I demanded.
"Collier, the undertaker. He says that a woman came to his place last night and gave him directions and money, but would not give her name. She was veiled, and he knows nothing about her, except that she paid him to see that the body was decently interred."
"That's all you know?"
"That's all anybody knows."
"Collier is in charge, then?"
"Yes."
That was interesting, so far as it went. Was the woman who had provided for Barker's burial merely some benevolent stranger who had been emotionally stirred by the newspaper accounts, (that sort of thing happens more frequently than you would believe,) or was there some closer bond? The answer seemed as hidden as everything else connected with this strange affair.
On my way to my office, I hunted up 26 Angus Avenue. It was such a place as I might have expected,--a shabby house in a row, on a semi-obscure street. My ring was answered by a young woman of about twenty,--an unkempt, heavy-eyed young woman, who didn't look happy. She listened unresponsively while I preferred my request for some information about Mr. Barker, and left me standing in the hall while she returned to some dark back room. I heard her say, "Ma! Here's another wants to know things." And presently Ma appeared, hot from the kitchen, and somewhat fretted.
"I can't be answering questions all day," she said, at me rather than to me. "There was a string of people here all day yesterday, taking my time. Just because Mr. Barker roomed here is no reason why I should know all about him."
"You probably know more than any of the rest of us," I said, deferentially. "Had Mr. Barker been long with you?"
"Long enough, but that don't mean that I know much about him. He was here awhile in the summer two years ago, and when he was in town afterwards he would come here to see if I could give him a room. But he never stayed long at a time. I think he was some kind of a traveling man,--here to-day and gone to-morrow. He has been here now for the last six weeks, but he never had any visitors or received any letters and I don't know the names and addresses of any of his relatives,--and that's what I told the police and all the rest of them!" She finished breathless but still defiant.
"That seems to cover the ground pretty thoroughly," I laughed. "But I shall have to ask another question on my own account. Was he married?"
"No!" said the girl positively. I had not noticed that she had returned. She was standing in the doorway behind me.
"Not that we know," said the mother, more guardedly, and with an anxious look at her daughter.
"Did he leave any effects here?"
"You can see the room, like all the rest," she said, with grim impartiality.
"I'd like to."
She led the way up a narrow stairway from the front hall to a rear room on the second floor. She opened the door with a key which she took from her pocket, and stepped inside.
"Land sakes!" she exclaimed.
The reason was clear. The room was all upset. The contents of a trunk, which stood in one corner, were scattered upon the floor, the drawers of the bureau were open, and a writing desk near the window had evidently been thoroughly searched. Every drawer was open, and papers were scattered upon the floor.
"Land sakes!" she repeated. "Gertie, come here."
Gertie came, and swept the room with the unsurprised and comprehending eye of the practical young woman of to-day.
"Someone got in through the window," she said briefly. "You know that clasp doesn't catch, Anybody could get in. Well, I hope they are satisfied now!" From her tone I understood that she hoped just the opposite.
"We might all have been murdered in our beds!" exclaimed the mother.
"Oh, it wasn't us they were after," said Gertie carelessly. "It was him! I tell you,--" She stopped suddenly and bit her lip.
"But who could ever have known that the catch didn't work?" demanded the mother in a baffled manner.
"To whom did you show the room yesterday?" I asked. "Anyone who had an opportunity to examine the room inside could have made plans for returning at night."
"Well, first it was the police, and they told me not to let anyone touch anything,--though I knew that myself. Then there were people all day long,--curiosity seekers, I call them. There was one little old gentleman that came up first,--I say old, but he was as spry as any of them. Something like a bird in the way he turned his head."
It suggested Mr. Ellison exactly! "With spectacles?" I asked.
"Yes. Gold-brimmed. Gray hair that curled up at the ends."
"Anyone else you remember? Was there a tall young man, fresh-shaven, with rather a blue-black tint where the beard had been taken off?"
"There was!" cried Gertie. "I saw that! He came last night, about seven."
"Well, I didn't let him go up," said the mother. "I was tired bothering with them."
"But you told him which room Mr. Barker had," said Gertie.
"Who was he?"
"I don't know. I saw such a looking man with Mr. Barker the other day, and I just asked out of curiosity."
"I will have to report this to the police," said the woman wearily. "No end of trouble. If you please, sir, I'll lock the door now."
"One moment!" I had been standing beside the writing desk, and my eye had caught a few words written on a sheet of letter paper,--the beginning of an unfinished letter. "Is this Mr. Barker's writing, do you know?"
The letter read: