One day it occurred to me to ask Fellows if he was keeping up my advertisement for Mary Doherty, from which I had heard nothing so far. His start and confusion were an obvious confession.
"N-no, not now. I did run it several times."
"I told you to keep it in until further orders. Don't you remember?"
He did not answer. I could not understand his manner.
"I am sorry if you didn't understand. We have probably lost an opportunity,--certainly have lost time. I count on getting important information from Mrs. Barker, if we can find her."
"What sort of information?" asked Fellows doggedly. I thought he was trying to minimize the results of his neglect.
"Well, almost any information that would enable us to fix Barker's associates would probably be valuable. More particularly, I want to find out whether there is anyone who wants to marry her and couldn't while Barker was alive."
I succeeded in attracting Fellows' attention, at least. He stared at me in silence, as though he were turning the thought over.
"I'll advertise again," he said, but without enthusiasm.
I think it was that day that I had a disconcerting interview with Burleigh, the editor of the Saintsbury Samovar. I have mentioned, I believe, that some independent public-spirited citizens were trying to make Clyde run for mayor. (It was one of those anti-ring waves of reform which strike a city once in so often, and are temporarily successful because good business men work at them for a season. The success is seldom, if ever, more than temporary, because the good business men go back to their jobs as soon as things are running smoothly, while the ring politicians never really drop their jobs for a minute.)
Well, Clyde had cold-shouldered the proposition, but rather half-heartedly. Probably there is no man living who does not have some political ambition. Certainly Clyde had it. With his wide interest in public matters, his natural power over men, and his ancestry and associations, I knew that nothing but the shadow of fear at his elbow had kept him out of the political game, and I was therefore not surprised when, a few days after the Barker tragedy had ceased to occupy the upper right-hand corner of the first page of the newspapers, that space was given up to announcing that Kenneth Clyde had consented to accept the reform party's nomination. I sympathized with the relief which I knew lay back of the acceptance.
This was the political situation when I met Burleigh. He was the editor of the evening paper which supported the ring and damned reform, and of course I knew where he stood as regards Clyde's candidacy. But when he stopped me on the street that noon, he didn't speak of Clyde.
"Hello, how's the lawyerman?" he said, taking my hand where it hung by my side and shaking it without regard to my wishes in the matter.
I resented his familiarity with my hand and with my profession, but the convention of politeness, which makes it impossible for us to tell people our real feelings about them, constrained me to civility.
"Very well, thank you," I said, carelessly, and made a move to go on my way.
He turned and fell into step with me.
"I'd like to ask what you lawyers call a hypothetical question," he said. "Just a joke, you understand,--a case some of the boys were talking about in our office. Read of it in some novel, I guess. Some said it would be that way and some said it wouldn't. In law, you know."
"Well, what is the question?" I asked, as politely as my feelings would permit. (Funny idea people have, that a lawyer learns law for the purpose of supplying gratuitous opinions to chance acquaintances! I shouldn't think of asking Burleigh to send me the Samovar for a year, just to satisfy my curiosity!)
"Why, it's this. If a man has been convicted of murder--the man in the story was--and then makes his escape and lives somewhere else for twenty years or so, and is finally discovered and identified, how does he stand in regard to the law?"
You may guess how I felt! The hypothetical case was so exactly Clyde's case that for a moment my brain was paralyzed. I was so afraid of betraying my surprise that I did not speak. I merely nodded and smoked and kept my eyes on the ground.
"There's no statute of limitations to run on a sentence of the court, is there?" he asked, eagerly.
"No," I said, with professional deliberation. "No, if you are sure that you have your facts all straight. But you don't often get law entirely disentangled from facts, and they often have unexpected effects on a question. What novel did you get that from?"
"Oh,--I don't know. I just heard the boys talking about it, and I wondered."
But he looked so eager that I could not help feeling the question was more significant to him than mere literary curiosity would explain.
"You think, then, that there might be some element in the situation that would perhaps complicate it?" he asked.
"It is never safe to form an opinion without knowing all the facts," I said, oracularly.
"But if the facts are as I stated them,--an escape from justice after conviction, and nothing else,--then the man is still liable to the law, isn't he?"
"Probably," I said, with a shrug intended to intimate that the matter was of no special interest to me. "How did it turn out in your story?"
Burleigh looked at me sideways for a moment. Then he said, imperturbably, "Why, I believe he made the mistake of going into politics, and so the thing came out. He was hung--in the story. Politics is no place for a man who has a past that he doesn't want to have come out."
"No doubt you are right about that," I said lightly.
"Of course I am. I'm in the business," he said emphatically. "If a man has a past--that sort of a past, I mean,--he ought to know enough to stick to--philanthropy or architecture or collecting, or something else nice and private. This your street? Well, good day, Mr. Hilton. Glad I met you." He tipped his hat and left me.
You can imagine the state of my mind. I puzzled over the situation for an hour, and then telephoned Clyde and asked him to drop into my office.
Clyde came that same afternoon. I told him of the Burleigh interview as directly as possible.
"Now you can judge for yourself whether it means anything sinister," I concluded.
"The Samovar is for the ring, of course," he said, thoughtfully.
"Of course. And Burleigh's recommendation that a man in that predicament should confine himself to architecture, or some kindred avocation, instead of trying to break into politics, didn't sound altogether accidental."
He nodded comprehendingly, and smoked in silence for a few moments. Then he looked up with a smile.
"I think I'll go on the theory that it was accidental."
I hadn't expected that, and I couldn't approve.
"As your lawyer, I must warn you that you are taking a serious risk," I said earnestly. "If Barker shared his secret with someone, who has gone with it to Burleigh, you are exactly in your old situation. It would be better to let the sleeping Samovar lie and give up the mayoralty."
He continued to smoke for a minute, but I saw the obstinate look in his eye that a mettled horse tales on when he doesn't mean to heed your hints.
"You don't understand, Hilton," he said after a moment, "but since Barker's death I have felt free for the first time in fifteen years. I like the sensation. Very likely I have gone drunk on it and lost my senses, but I like the feeling so much that I am going to snap my fingers at Burleigh and pretend that he has no more power to influence my actions than he would have had if--well, if Tom Johnson had never got into trouble."
"You think the mayoralty is worth the risk?" I asked.
"The mayoralty? No! Not for a minute. But--this sense of freedom is."
"But it is your freedom that you are risking."
He stood up, and though I could not commend his judgment, I had to admire his courage. There was something finely determined in his attitude as he tossed away his cigar and put his hands in his pockets.
"I am going to have it out with my evil destiny this time," he said, with a quick laugh. "Better be hanged than to skulk longer. I shall go on the theory that Burleigh has merely been reading some giddy detective stories."
"Don't forget that there are some crimes which don't achieve the immortality of a detective story, because they are never explained," I said warningly.
He merely smiled, but I knew my warning would go for nothing,--and secretly I was glad. There are things more to be desired than safety.
Jordan gained rapidly in strength, and was soon in condition to return, a sadder, wiser, and poorer man, to Eden Valley. I determined, however, to accompany him, and see if I could gather on the ground any further details about the serpent, my inquiries by mail bringing, as I have told, but unsatisfactory answers. But before leaving Saintsbury, I called again upon my client in the jail. I found him, as always, the gentle, nice-mannered, puzzling youth.
"I am going away for a while in your interests," I said, by way of greeting.
"That's awfully good of you," he said gratefully. Then with polite concern he added, "I hope you aren't giving yourself any trouble--"
"Oh, I sha'n't mind a little inconvenience when it is in the way of business," I said drily. "It may be a matter of entire indifference to you, but I want to win my case!"
"Oh, yes, of course," he said with anxious courtesy. I could see that he had no idea what I meant! There was no use trying to arouse him in that way, and I might as well accept his attitude.
"Did you know that Barker had a partner?" I asked abruptly.
He shook his head with an air of distaste. "No. I know nothing about him. I shouldn't, you know."
"You never heard of Diavolo?"
"Not the opera?" he asked doubtfully.
"No. A professional hypnotist with whom Barker was connected in a business way."
"No, I never heard of him."
"Did you ever hear of William Jordan? Or of Eden Valley?"
"No." He looked puzzled.
"I have an idea that it may have been Diavolo who shot Barker!" I said carelessly.
He looked surprised, and then, deferentially and hesitatingly, he expressed his dissent.
"I suppose you feel that you have to fight for me, as my lawyer, but--what's the use in this case? I don't understand these things, of course, but I'd rather have it settled with as little fuss as possible. I shot him, and I am not sorry, and--I'd like to have it all over with as soon as possible." His voice was steady enough, and the gallant lift of his head made me think of his sister, but I thought I saw a look of dread somewhere back in his eye. Perhaps he was beginning to weaken! I determined to press the point a little.
"And yet it is a pity to have your life run into the sand in that way," I said earnestly. "There might be much for you in the future,--success, love, honor,--" I watched him closely. His face quivered under the probe, but he did not speak.
"Miss Thurston is heartbroken," I added, relentlessly.
He looked at me as a dumb animal under the knife might look, and then he dropped his face into his hands. I pressed the matter while he was at my mercy.
"If you did not shoot Barker,--if you are in fact innocent,--don't, for Heaven's sake, let any foolish idea of saving someone else lead you to lie about it. There could be no one worthy of saving at that cost. And, besides, if you are lying, I am going to find out the truth in spite of you."
He lifted his head, but he did not look at me.
"I am not lying. Why should I? I supposed anyone would believe a man who said he had done--a thing like that."
"I wish you would tell me about it again,--just what you did." (I wanted to see if his story would vary.)
He dropped his eyes to the floor thoughtfully. "I went to his office," he said slowly. "I went through the outer office and into the inner office. They were both empty. I locked the door and waited. I watched through a hole in the curtain over the glass in the door. A man came in, waited a little, and went out. Then Barker came. I waited till he came close to the door. Then I fired. I saw him fall. Then I went down the fire-escape and got out into the street." As he finished, he raised his eyes from the floor and looked at me. His glance was not entirely frank, and yet I could not call it evasive.
"There was no one else in the room with you?"
"No one."
"You saw no one else at any time except the man who came into the outer office?"
"No one else."
"And him you do not know?"
"No."
"If I should tell you it was I?"
He looked at me, puzzled and doubtful. "Was it you?"
"Wouldn't you know? Didn't you see the man's face?"
He hesitated. "N-no."
"Then how did you know it wasn't Barker?"
"Why,--it wasn't."
"Since you meant to give yourself up to the police, why did you go down the fire-escape instead of out through the hall?"
He looked distressed. "I--don't know." Then he seemed to gather his ideas together. "My mind is confused about much that happened that night, Mr. Hilton. The only thing that stands out very clearly is the fact that I shot him. And that is the only thing that is really important, isn't it?"
And that was the most that I got out of the interview.
I had to admit, in face of this, that it was partly obstinacy which made me hold to the idea that he was not telling the whole truth. The fact that he had not recognized me, though he must have had me under close observation for a long time, and the fact that some one in the inner room had been eating apples, and that some one not he,--this was really all I had to support my point of view. But these were facts, both of them, and a fact is a very obstinate thing. A very small fact is enough to overthrow a whole battalion of fair-seeming fabrications. I felt that I was not throwing in my fortune with the weaker side when I determined to follow the lead of those two small facts to the bitter end.
The pursuit led me in the first place to Eden Valley. I took poor William Jordan to his home, a farm lying just outside of the village, (and not more than two hundred miles from Saintsbury,) and then I returned to the village. It was a country town of about 2000, with one main hotel. I judged that Diavolo and Barker would have to lodge there if anywhere, and on inquiry I found my guess correct. They were not forgotten.
"Oh, that hypnotist chap!" said the landlord. "Yes, he was here in the summer. Had a show at the Masonic Hall. Say, that's a great stunt, isn't it? Ever see him?"
"No. What was he like?"
"Oh, he was made up, you know,--Mephistopheles style. Black pointed beard and long black hair and a queer glittering eye."
"But when he was not made up? You saw him here in the hotel in his natural guise, didn't you?"
"Nope. Funny thing, that. He kept in his room, and the man that was with him, Barker I think his name was, he did the talking and managed everything. Diavolo acted as though he didn't want to be seen off the stage. Wore a long cape and a slouch hat when he went out, and had his meals all sent up."
"Was he tall or short?"
"Medium. Rather slim. Long, thin hands. Say, when he waved those hands before the face of that old farmer sitting on a chair on the stage, it was enough to make the shivers run down your back. I don't know whether it was all a fake or not. Most people here think it was, but I swan, it was creepy."
"Did you know the farmer?"
"Oh, yes,--old Jordan. Lives near here. Terrible set up about having a strong will, and said nobody could hypnotize him. Say, it was funny to see him think he was a cat, chasing a rat, and then suddenly believe that he was an old maid and scared to death of a mouse, and jumping up on a chair and screaming in a squeaky little voice."
"Diavolo woke him up, didn't he?"
"Oh, yes. And then the old man tore things around. He came here the next day to see the man in the daylight, and dare him to try it again."
"Did he do it?" I asked, wondering how much of Jordan's story was known to his neighbors.
"Oh, I guess not. He went up to Diavolo's room, I remember, and when he came out he wouldn't talk, but just went off home."
"And you never heard Diavolo's real name?"
"Nope. Trade secret, I suppose. Probably born Bill Jones, or something else that wouldn't look as well on the billboards as Diavolo."
I went to the Masonic Hall, where the "show" was given, but there I met the same difficulties. Barker had made all the arrangements and been the mouthpiece. The mysterious Diavolo had appeared only at the last moment, cloaked and made up for stage effect, and had held no conversation with anyone. They all thought his assumption of mystery a part of his profession. I saw in it a persistent care to hide his identity. I could only hope that some momentary carelessness or some accident would give me a clue. His very anxiety to hide his real name made more plausible my theory that Barker's knowledge of it might have been the occasion of his death. In the olden times, the masons who constructed the secret passages under castle and moat were usually slain when the work was done, as the most effective way of ensuring their silence.
From Eden Valley, I went to Illington, the next place mentioned in Barker's memorandum book. Here it was much the same. The two men had stopped at the hotel over night, but Diavolo had kept out of sight, while Barker had transacted all the business and made all the arrangements. I realized that I was dealing with people who used concealment as a part of their business.
The same story met me at Sweet Valley, at Lyndale, at Hawthorn, at Dickinson. It was not until I reached Junius that I found what I had hoped for and had begun to despair of finding,--a personal recollection of Diavolo.
"Oh, yes," the landlady at the hotel said. "He was here. Raised the--I should say, raised his namesake with a toothache."
She was a jolly landlady, and she laughed at her own near-profanity till she shook. She had probably worked the same joke off before.
I smiled,--it wasn't hard, in face of her own jollity. "What did he do?" I asked.
"Oh, tramped up and down his room just like an ordinary man. Couldn't eat his supper. Kept a hot water bottle to his face, though I told Mr. Barker it was the worst thing he could do. Mr. Barker was distracted. It was getting to be near the hour for the performance, and Diavolo wouldn't go on. Not that I blame him. A jumping tooth is enough to upset even a wizard."
"How did it turn out?"
"Oh, he went to a dentist and had it out, and--"
Things danced before my eyes. I felt like shouting "Now hast thou delivered mine enemy into my hands." It seemed almost incredible that what I could hardly have dreamed of as a possibility could be the plain actual fact.
"Do you know what dentist he visited?" I asked, trying to speak casually.
"Oh, yes. Mr. Barker inquired at the office, and went with him. Diavolo was very careful about not being seen, and even then he wore a wig. I knew it was a wig, because he had got it crooked, tossing about, and some light hairs showed about his ear."
"What dentist did you send him to?" I asked anxiously.
"Dr. Shaw."
"And he isn't dead or moved away or anything like that?"
"Oh, no! He has his office right around the corner. He boards in the house, and I always like to throw business in the way of my boarders when I can."
"I think I shall have to see him on my own account," I said. I almost expected an earthquake to swallow up Dr. Shaw before I could get around the corner, but I found the office still in place, all right, and the doctor himself, looking rather pathetically glad to see some one enter. He was a dapper little man, with a silky moustache and an eternal smile. (Not that his looks matter! But whenever I think of that interview, I see that humble, ingratiating smile.)
"What can I do for you?" he asked gently and caressingly.
"I am not in need of your professional services, Doctor Shaw, but I should like to obtain some information from you, if you will allow me to take some of your time at your regular rates. I am a lawyer, and I am anxious to establish the identity of a man who was here in the summer under the name of Diavolo,--a professional hypnotist. Mrs. Goodell, of the Winslow House, tells me that she sent him to you to be relieved of a toothache."
"Yes, I remember. I extracted a tooth for him," Dr. Shaw said at once. "I could perhaps have saved it, but it would have required treatment, and he insisted upon having it extracted, as he was to appear on the stage that evening."
"Was there anything peculiar about the formation of his jaw, do you remember? Any irregularity, for instance?"
The dentist smiled. "Yes. Decided irregularity. His jaw was peculiarly long and narrow, and the teeth, which were large, were crowded. On both sides the upper teeth formed a V."
"Like this?" I asked, taking the model which Dr. Kenton had made for me from my pocket.
"Exactly like that," he said, after examining it critically. "Wasn't this made from his mouth?"
"That is what I want to ascertain."
"It would be extraordinary to find two persons with the same marked peculiarity," he said thoughtfully.
"Would that peculiarity be enough to establish the man's identity?" I asked.
"Perhaps not. But I could identify Diavolo positively and beyond question, if that is what you mean. There were other distinguishing marks. The first lower left molar was gone, and replaced by a bridge, for instance. And the second molars in the upper jaw had both been extracted,--probably to relieve the crowding. The conformation was unmistakable, and very unusual."
"Then if I ever get my hands on Diavolo, you can identify him, regardless of grease paint and wig?"
"Unquestionably."
"I hope most heartily that I may be able to give you the opportunity. You have done me a great service as it is. For the present, I can only tell you that your information will serve the cause of justice."
Can you guess my elation? I should certainly have astonished the staid people of the prim little town if I had allowed myself to express the state of my feelings. My wild goose chase had not been so wild, after all! I had not yet bagged the game, to be sure, but I felt that I had winged it. Certainly I ought to be able to convince any jury that if Barker's former partner was in the room from which the fatal shot had been fired, the chances were strong that he had had something to do with it. And that he was there I could prove. The apple in which he had left the imprint of his curiously irregular teeth was freshly bitten; and the toothache which had driven the cautious Diavolo from his cover of silence and forced him, by stress of physical agony, to the intimate personal relation of a patient with his dentist, had identified him as the man. It only remained to find--him!
What Eugene Benbow's connection with the affair could have been was so much of a mystery that I could form no conjecture. One thing at a time. When I had unearthed Diavolo, the other things might clear themselves up. Sometimes one missing piece will make a puzzle fall into shape and everything appear coherent.
I had been away from Saintsbury on this search for over a week, and I was anxious to get back. I wanted to find out whether my advertisement for Mary Doherty had brought any answer. I wondered whether Benbow had grown more communicative. I wanted to see Jean, who must be having a time of it, living with her queer, unaffectionate guardian. I wondered whether Fellows had attended to things at the office. But I didn't think of the one thing that had actually happened. I found out what it was when the newsboys came on the train with the Saintsbury papers. The Evening Samovar had exploded. It had come out with Clyde's story.
The Saintsbury papers were thrown on our train several stations beyond the town. I bought one, of course, and unfolded it with a cheerful feeling of being near home again,--and there stared at me from the first page the glaring headlines,--
I tore my way through the leaded paragraphs. The only thing that was news to me was the clue on which the Samovar had worked.
According to the high-flown account, Barker had left at the Samovar office, on the night on which he was killed, a large sealed envelope addressed to himself, with the added direction:
"If this is not called for within five days, it is to be opened by the Managing Editor of the Samovar."
It would appear that this was the errand that was occupying Barker while I sat waiting for him in his office! I could not refrain from pausing to admire the rascal's cleverness. He was anticipating--not the death which came so swiftly, but--a visit from Clyde, or possibly Clyde's representative, and he had adroitly made it impossible for Clyde to control the situation by force or coercion. The story was written out and in the hands of the paper which would most gladly profit by the disclosure, though it was still, for five days, subject to Barker's own recall, if he were properly treated! It certainly was a reserve of the most unquestionable value in diplomatic negotiations.
The Samovar went on to say that after the sensation of Barker's death, the envelope had been held inviolate for the specified time, and had then been opened by Burleigh in the presence of witnesses.
The story as written by Barker was then set forth in full. It recited briefly that Barker had been present at a court trial in Houston, Texas, some fifteen years before, at which one Tom Johnson had been convicted of the murder of a man named Henley, and sentenced to death. The prisoner had escaped from the sheriff immediately after conviction, and had never been captured. Then Mr. Barker proceeded:
"Two or three years ago I saw Mr. Kenneth Clyde in Saintsbury, and greatly to my surprise, I recognized in him the missing Tom Johnson. I charged him with the identity, and he did not deny it. He then and afterwards freely admitted to me that he was the man who, under another name, had been convicted of murder and had made his escape. I have refrained from making this information public out of consideration for Mr. Clyde, but I feel it a public duty to leave this record where, if certain contingencies should arise, it may be found."
(The contingency which the writer had in mind was probably a refusal on the part of Clyde to continue paying blackmail. That would undoubtedly have made Mr. Barker's public duty weigh upon his tender conscience.)
The Samovar then went on to say that the story at first seemed incredible, and therefore the witnesses were all sworn to secrecy until the matter could be investigated. A special representative had been sent to Texas to look it up. The writer then modestly emphasized the difficulties of the undertaking, and his own astonishing cleverness in mastering them. He had actually found the court records to establish the tale of the late lamented Mr. Barker, whose untimely taking off with this public service still unperformed would have been nothing less (under the present political circumstances) than a civic calamity. Tom Johnson had been convicted of the treacherous and bloody murder of his friend. (The details were then given in substantial agreement with the story which Clyde had told me.)
"But who," the happy historian went on to say, "who would have guessed, who would have dared suggest, who would have ventured to believe, that this obscure criminal, snatching the stolen cloak of freedom from the heedless hands of careless officials, and skulking off with it by the underground passages known to the criminal classes,--who would have believed that this false friend, this wretch, this felon, was none other than the Reform Candidate for Mayor of Saintsbury? The charge is so incredible that we may well be asked,--Where lies the proof of identity, beyond the word of Alfred Barker, now cold in death? The man who so long had successfully covered up his past, may well have felt, when Barker met his tragic fate, that at last he could walk in security, since the one witness who, in a period of fifteen years, had identified him, was now disposed of. But murder will out. The truth, though crushed to earth, will live again. The sun in the heavens has been summoned as a witness. While Tom Johnson was in jail, awaiting trial, an enterprising paper of the place secured several photographs of the prisoner. These our representative found in an old file of the paper. We reproduce below, side by side, the photographs of Tom Johnson, lying under an unexecuted sentence for murder, and of Kenneth Clyde, reform candidate for mayor. They speak for themselves."
They did, indeed. It was like a blow in the face to see the pictures side by side, even in the coarse newspaper print. The handsome, defiant face of the younger man had been softened and refined and had grown thoughtful,--but it was the same face. If Clyde had wanted to deny the accusation (though I knew that he would not think for a moment of that course,) it would have been fruitless. The photographs made it impossible.
As I studied them, I thought that any woman who loved him,--his mother or another,--should certainly be ready to give thanks on her knees for the changes that the fifteen years had wrought. As a young fellow he had clearly been rathertoohandsome. That any man with so much of the "beauty of the devil" had been marked by the stars for a tumultuous career was most obvious. There was spiritual tragedy in every lineament. On the other hand, there was no deviltry in the seriously handsome face of the man of to-day. You did not even think first of his good looks, the deeper significance of character had so come to the surface. Certainly, the shadow under which Clyde had lived had fostered the best in him.
The newspaper scribe ended his paragraph with a cruel innuendo:
"The sudden death of Alfred Barker at a time when Clyde had most to fear from the secret in his knowledge would have had a sinister appearance, if that apparent mystery had not been promptly solved by the confession of Eugene Benbow. Clyde should acknowledge his indebtedness to the convenient Benbow."
The fact that I had had a bad quarter of an hour convincing myself that Clyde had had nothing to do with the matter did not make me less indignant with the astute newspaper scribbler. And I saw further complications in the subject. If I cleared Gene--as I fully meant to do--it would be necessary to do it by bringing the real murderer to light. To clear Gene by simply proving that he was not on the spot (assuming that to be possible) would be merely to transfer the shadow of doubt to Clyde. It was a bad tangle.
The moment I reached the Saintsbury station, I tried to get into communication with Clyde. He might not care to have me act as his legal adviser in this more serious development of his case, but at least I must give him the opportunity to decline.
It was eight o'clock when the train pulled in, and I went at once to the private telephone booth and tried to get Clyde. His office was closed and did not answer,--I had expected that. His residence telephone likewise "didn't answer." Then I called up the chief of police, and asked whether Clyde had been arrested, basing my inquiry on the Samovar story. He had not,--though it took me some time to get that statement out of the close-mouthed officials of the law. Then I called up Mr. Whyte's residence, hoping to get some hint of the situation as it affected my friends. It was Jean Benbow's voice that answered my call.
"Oh, it'syou!" she cried, and the intonation of her voice was the most flattering thing I have ever heard in my life--almost. "Oh, I always did know that there must be special providences for special occasions, and if anybody ever thinks there aren't, I'll tell them about your calling up at just this moment, and they'llknow. The mostdreadfulthing has happened,--"
"I have seen the Evening Samovar. Is that what you mean?"
"Oh,yes!Mrs. Whyte is at my elbow and she says I must tell you to come right up here in a jiffy--only she didn't say jiffy, but that is what she meant. She says now that I must not stand here and keep you talking, though really I know it is I that is talking,--or should I say am talking? But you understand. And Mrs. Whyte says you must jump into a cab and come up at once. Mr. Whyte wants to consult with you." The communication stopped with an abruptness that suggested external assistance.
It was Jean herself who admitted me. She must have been watching out for me, for she had the door open and was half way down the steps to meet me before I was fairly on Mr. Whyte's cement walk.
"Oh, but I am thankful to see you," she said earnestly. "Ever since that paper came this afternoon, I have been in a dream! I mean an awful dream, you know,--almost a nightmare. It seemed so unreal. Though I suppose that is what real life is like, maybe?" She looked at me inquiringly.
"I never saw anything like it before, and I have lived a real life for many more years than you have," I answered, meaning to reassure her.
She looked at me under her lashes. "Oh, not so very many more! Not enough to--to make any real difference. But you don't know how queer it seems to me to have things happening like this all around you. First Gene, and now Mr. Clyde. Do you believe it is true, Mr. Hilton?"
"I can't form an opinion from newspaper tales alone," I said evasively.
By this time we were at the door, where Mrs. Whyte was waiting, with Mr. Whyte at her shoulder. They both looked worried.
"You have seen the paper?" Whyte asked, while we were shaking hands.
"Yes. On the train. Do you know where Clyde is?"
"No. I tried to get him by 'phone, but I couldn't find him, and he knows where to find me, if he wants to. What do you think of it?"
I could only repeat that I could not express an opinion without more reliable information,--blessed subterfuge of the lawyer!
Mrs. Whyte broke in emphatically. "Well, I for one do not believe it. You needn't look so wise, Carroll, as though you meant to imply that we can't be sure of anyone until he is dead. I knew Kenneth Clyde when he wore knickerbockers and I knew his father and his uncle, and I simply don't believe it. The Samovar is nothing but a political scandal-monger, anyway."
"It was a long time ago, Clara," Whyte said deprecatingly. "Clyde was young, and you know he was a wild youngster. And there may have been provocations of which we know nothing."
"You are trying to excuse him, as though you thought the story true," cried Mrs. Whyte indignantly. "I simply say that I don't believe it. Not for a moment."
"I believe it," said a voice that startled us all. Katherine Thurston was standing on the landing of the stairs, looking down upon us as we were grouped in the hall. There was a tall lamp on the newel which threw a white light on her face, but it was not the lamp-light which gave it the look of subdued radiance that held our gaze. I confess I stared quite greedily, careless of what she was saying. But Mrs. Whyte recovered herself first,--naturally.
"Katherine! What are you saying? Come down!"
She came down slowly. There was a curious stillness upon her, as though she had come strangely upon peace in the midst of a storm.
p186"I believe it," said a voice that startled us all.Page186.
"I should think you would at least wait for a little better evidence before believing such a thing of--ofanyfriend!" Mrs. Whyte chided indignantly.
Something like a ripple passed over Miss Thurston's face. She was actually smiling!
"I don't mean that I am eager to believe evil reports of Mr. Clyde," she said gently. "But--it explains so much. I think it probably is true because it would--explain. And, of course," she added, lifting her head with a proud gesture that would have sent Clyde to his knees, "of course it makes not an atom of difference in our feeling towardhim. We know what he is."
Man is a curious animal. I was not in love with Katherine Thurston. I had never come within hailing distance of her heart and would have been somewhat afraid of it if I had; I had even suspected that the artificial calm which lay between her and Clyde covered emotional possibilities, past, present, or to come; and yet, now that I saw the whole tale written on her unabashed face, I felt suddenly as though a rich and coveted galleon were sailing away, forever out of my reach!
It was probably only a bare moment that we were all held there silent, but the moment was so tense that its revelations were not to be counted by time. Then Jean, who stood beside me, suddenly clasped my arm with both her hands, in a gesture that I felt to be a warning. I looked down at her inquiringly. She nodded slightly toward the French window which opened from the library upon a side porch, and following her gesture I saw the shadow of a stooping man outside. Before I could reach the window, it was pushed open from without, and Kenneth Clyde stepped into the room. I don't think we were surprised,--we had reached a state of mind where the unexpected seemed natural,--but when Clyde stepped instantly aside from the window and stood in the shadow of the bookcase, we awoke to a realization of what his coming meant.
"I beg your pardon for entering in this unceremonious way," he said (and there was a thrill of excitement in his voice that went through us all like a laughing challenge) "but I have been dodging the police for an hour, and I know I am followed now. If you would draw the curtain, Hilton,--"
I drew the curtains over the windows, and Whyte closed the door into the hall. I think he locked it. The three women had followed us into the library, and though they stood silent and breathless, I do not think that Clyde could have had much doubt in his mind as to whether he held their sympathy.
"I had to come for just a moment before I got out of town," he said in a hurried undertone. He spoke to the room, but his eyes were on Katherine Thurston, who stood silent at a little distance.
"Tut, tut, man, you mustn't leave town," cried Whyte. "The worst thing you could possibly do! Ask Hilton here. He's a lawyer."
Clyde smiled at me, but went on rapidly. "I am not asking advice of counsel on this,--I am acting on my own responsibility. I cannot take the risk of giving myself up to the authorities. I know what that means. I am going away,--there is nothing else to do. But I could not go without coming here for a moment. You--my friends--have a right to ask an account of me." He paused for a second in his rapid speech, and then went on with a deeper ring in his voice. "The newspaper story is true, so far as my conviction by a Texas court fifteen years ago goes. But I was convicted through a mistake. I am innocent of murder. But I could not prove it. That--" He laughed somewhat unsteadily, and his eyes held Miss Thurston's,--"that is the story of my life."
We had none of us moved while he spoke, partly because he was so still himself, partly from a feeling of overshadowing danger which might descend if we stirred. But now Katherine Thurston moved toward him and he took a step to meet her. I think they had both forgotten all the rest of the world.
"Couldn't you have trusted me?" she asked, in tenderest reproach.
"I couldn't trust myself," he answered in a low voice.
"Ah, there you were wrong!" she said quickly. "So many years! And now--"
"Now I must go and see if there is any way to gather up the broken fragments."
"Could I not help in some way? May I not go with you?" she asked simply.
"Youwoulddo that?" he demanded.
"Anywhere," she answered.
He lifted her fingers to his lips and hid their trembling upon her white hand. "No, you cannot go," he said, with a break in his voice.
"Then I will wait for you here," she said.
"Oh, my God!" he breathed.
We came to our senses then, and Mrs. Whyte swept us out into the hall with one wave of her matronly arm. They must have that moment of complete understanding to themselves. We hovered at the foot of the stairs, waiting to speak again with Clyde, yet too upset in our minds to have any clear idea of what we could suggest or needed to ask. Mrs. Whyte, in a surge of emotion, caught Jean to her buxom bosom,--against which the child looked like a star-flower on a brocaded silk hillock. Jean's eyes were shining,--and not her eyes alone; her whole face was alight with a tender radiance.
Whyte gripped my shoulder to turn my attention. "See here, Hilton, he mustn't run away. It would look like guilt. You must tell him, as a lawyer, that it would be the worst thing he could do. If he is innocent, the law will protect him,--"
"The law has already condemned him," I reminded him. "The situation is difficult. He is not a man merely accused, his defense unpresented. He has been tried, convicted, and sentenced."
"Good heavens!" he gasped. "Then if he puts himself in the hands of the law, there will be nothing left but to see the execution of the sentence? Is that what you mean?"
"Yes. That is the situation. There have been cases where men who had escaped from prison have lived for years exemplary lives and reached civic honors, yet, when recognized and apprehended, they had to go back to prison and serve out the unexpired sentence of the man condemned years before."
"But if the sentence was unwarranted?"
"Of course we would try to make a fight on it," I said, but without much confidence. "But the sentence was pronounced by a duly qualified court, and it will not be easy to upset it at this late day. It would be a thousand times harder now to find any evidence there may be in his favor than it could have been then, when the events were fresh in the memory of everybody. And unless we can discover some new evidence having a bearing on the matter, we would have no ground on which to ask for a re-opening of the case."
"That's terrible," he said. Then, dropping his voice, "Is the death penalty in force there?"
I nodded.
"The man was a fool to hang around home," Whyte protested energetically, as he took the situation in. "Why didn't he have sense enough to go to South America or Africa, or the South Sea Islands when he first escaped?"
As if in answer to his question, the library door opened, and Katherine Thurston stood framed in the doorway. She had the same curiously still air that I had noticed when she stood on the stairs,--as though her spirit had found the way into a region of mysterious peace.
"He has gone," she said quietly.
There was a sudden tap at the front door, and then, without further warning or delay, it was opened, and a police officer stood there.
"Is Mr. Clyde in the house?" he asked directly.
"No," Whyte answered.
The officer glanced about the room with a swift survey of us all.
"He's gone, then?" he said.
No one answered.
"Sorry to have troubled you," he said, touching his helmet, and immediately went out. We heard low voices and hurried steps passing around the house.
"Oh, they'll find him!" cried Mrs. Whyte in dismay. "He can't have got a safe distance yet."
"Hush!" warned Whyte. He stepped to the library and looked out. Then after a moment he came back to us. "They are watching the house. The longer they watch, the better! Do you know his plans, Hilton?"
I shook my head. Miss Thurston had faded away like a wraith but Mrs. Whyte and Jean were hanging on our words. "No, I have no idea where he is going, or what he means to do. The police are very close on his heels. I confess it looks dubious that he will get very far."
Jean laughed out suddenly and clapped her hands together.
"Why, of course he will escape! After they have come to know about each other!" she exclaimed. "Nothing else would be possible,now!"
Whyte and I exchanged glances. As a matter of fact, we would all like to live in a rose-colored world, where things would happen of necessity as they do in properly constructed fairy tales, but it takes the confidence of a Jean to announce such faith in the face of unsympathetic Experience.