Young Lyon, lounging in the Court House to make up his daily tale of items for the Waynscott News, was perhaps the only man who knew exactly how the quarrel between Lawrence and Fullerton began, though, when later events had made that quarrel take on an unexpected significance, he was exactly the one man who did not talk about it.
Through the glass side-panel of the door he had seen Lawrence coming up the stone walk from the street, and he had watched him with eagerness, meaning to get a nod as he passed, for Lawrence was not only a rising young lawyer, but, what was more important to the cub reporter, he had just won the championship in the curling contest of the city clubs. Slight as was Lyon's acquaintance with him, it had the touch of hero-worship which a youth is always ready to pour out as an offering before a man who is at once an athlete, a social success, a man eminent in professional life, and withal magnetic and charming in his personal relations, as Lawrence was. So he counted it luck just to have the chance to say "Good morning." It seems that Fullerton must have approached from the side street, for the two men met at the foot of the Court House steps and came up together. Lyon noticed that though they nodded to each other they did not speak. At the top Fullerton pushed ahead so as to come first through the revolving pepperbox of a storm-door which made the entrance of fresh air to the Court House as difficult as was the exit of foul air within. Lawrence swung through in the next compartment, pushing the door around much more rapidly than suited Fullerton's dignified gait. The knowledge that he had thumped his distinguished predecessor's heels probably cheered Lawrence's heart, for he cried gayly as he emerged,
You see I follow in your footsteps.
Not for the first time, said Fullerton in level tones, with a slow lifting of his lowered eyelids.
The effect of those quiet words on Lawrence's temper was surprising. Instantly his hand flashed out and he slapped Fullerton's face.
In a moment half a dozen men were between them. Some one restored Fullerton's hat, which had fallen off at his sudden start, while others officiously laid restraining hands on Lawrence, who was trembling like a nervous horse.
You may think a trick will win, but, by my soul, I'll take the trick, he cried hotly.
Fullerton, who was quite white except where the marks of Lawrence's fingers burned like a new brand on his cheek, stood perfectly still for an instant, with his eyes on the floor, as though waiting for anything further that his opposing counsel might have to say. Then he replaced his hat, bowed slightly to the group, and walked away to the elevator.
Jove, if I had the grip on my temper that Fullerton has, I'd be Attorney General by now, said Lawrence lightly. "Guess I'll take the other elevator, all the same." And he walked jauntily down the hall.
The collected group of men burst into excited cross-currents of talk.
What was it all about?
What will Fullerton do?
Gee, but Lawrence might be disbarred for that.
Fullerton, of all men! He must be getting old, if he lets that pass.
Oh, this isn't the end of it, you can bet on that all right.
But what was it all about?
Why, Fullerton got a decision in the Symes case yesterday,--beat Lawrence on a technicality. It was rather sharp practice, but Fullerton goes into a case to win, and he knows all the tricks of the trade. You heard what Lawrence said about taking the trick?
Yes, they had all heard what Lawrence had said. Lyon listened to the gossip, but contributed nothing. He was perfectly certain that Lawrence's hot speech about a trick had been expressly intended for the by-standers. The champion was too good a sport to take a professional defeat like a baby. And the quick speeches that had preceded the blow no one had heard but himself. He walked down the steps thoughtfully. It was his business to understand things.
But the quarrel did not appear among the news items he turned into the city editor.
I follow in your footsteps.--"Not for the first time."
The words echoed in Lyon's mind like a rebus which he must solve. There was a puzzle in them. Could he, by turning them and trying them, find the answer? Of course it wasn't really his business, but for some reason the puzzle haunted his mind.
He had an assignment that evening to report a concert given at the Hemlock Avenue Congregational Church, under the auspices of certain ladies sufficiently prominent in society to ensure a special reporter. He had timed himself to reach the church a little before nine, and as he walked briskly up the north side of Hemlock Avenue, his attention was attracted by the opening of a door in a house on the opposite side of the street. The light, streaming out toward him into the snowy whiteness of the night, showed a man at the door, parleying with the maid-servant within. After a moment the door closed and the man came slowly down the steps. He appeared to hesitate when he reached the street, then he turned up the avenue in the same direction that Lyon was going, and almost opposite him. As he passed under the street lamp, Lyon saw, with a sudden quick pleasure, that the man was Lawrence. He was walking laggingly, with his head bent. At the corner he turned south on Grant Street, and so soon passed out of sight.
Lyon's lively personal interest in Lawrence made him glance back at the house where his hero had evidently made an ineffective call, and wonder who it might be that lived there. Hemlock was an avenue that carried its air of sublimated respectability in every well-kept lawn and unfenced lot. Each house was set back from the street and was "detached," with trees and concrete walks and front lawn and back yard of its own. It was not a show street, but it was supremely well-bred. It struck Lyon, newly come from a busier city, as curious that, but for himself, Lawrence was the only person moving in the street. Not even a policeman was in sight.
This same seclusion and peace brooded over the scene when he retraced his way down that block on his early return from the concert an hour later. He was commenting upon the stillness to himself when he heard the sound of running feet approaching, and in a moment he saw the figure of a woman come running wildly toward him. About the middle of the block she cut diagonally across the street and ran into one of the houses opposite. Lyon had instinctively quickened his own pace, for her panic flight suggested that she was pursued, but he could see no one following her. Then he noticed that the house where she had run in was, curiously enough, the same house where Lawrence had called earlier that evening. She had not gone in at the front door but had run around to the side of the house.
Some servant maid who has overstayed her leave, he thought. "She ran well, though,--uncommonly good form for a kitchen girl. Bet she's had gymnasium work, whoever she is."
Reaching the end of the block he stopped and looked up and down the cross-street, Sherman, from which the girl had seemed to come. There was no one in sight. The street, snowily white and bare in the light of the gas lamps, lay open before him for long blocks. The music from a skating rink in the neighborhood came gayly to him on the frosty air and an electric car clanged busily in the near distance. As he moved on, his eye was caught by something dark on the white snow at the edge of the pavement,--a black silk muffler it proved to be, when he picked it up. Had the girl dropped it or merely hurried past it? It was a man's muffler. He was about to toss it back into the street when some instinct--the professional instinct of the reporter to understand everything he sees--made him roll it up and tuck it instead into his overcoat pocket.
He hurried on, meaning to catch the next car a few blocks below, when the shrill and repeated call of a policeman's whistle cut across the night. Lyon stopped. That sharp and insistent call suggested a more exciting "story" than his church concert. He hurried back to Sherman Street, and half-way down the block, midway between Hemlock Avenue and Oak Street, he saw the officer standing. It was not until he came close up that Lyon saw the gray heap on the ground near the officer's feet.
What's up? he demanded.
Man dead, the officer answered laconically.
Running feet were answering the signal of the whistle, and in less time than it takes to tell it, they were the center of an excited crowd. Donohue, the police officer, ordered the crowd sharply to stand back, while he sent the first watchman who had come up to telephone for the patrol wagon.
If any one is hurt, I am a physician, one man said, pushing his way to the front.
He's hurted too bad for you to do him any good, Donohue said.
The physician knelt down beside the fallen man, however, and made a hasty examination.
The man is quite dead, he said, at length. "There's a bruise on the temple,--the blow probably killed him instantly. But he has been dead a few minutes only."
At that there were excited suggestions that the murderer could not have got far away, and some one proposed an immediate search of the neighborhood. But no one started. The center of interest was in that gray-clad heap on the ground.
Who is the man?--Do you know who it is, officer? some one asked.
Donohue, obviously resentful of the presence of this unauthorized jury, made no answer. Lyon, watchful professionally for all details, suddenly recognized Lawrence in one of the men who stood nearest the body. There was something in the fixity of the look which he was bending upon the dead man that made Lyon's eye follow his, and then in his amaze he pushed past Donohue and knelt to look into the face resting against the curb.
Good heavens, it's Fullerton,--Warren Fullerton, the lawyer, he cried.
The volley of exclamations and questions which he drew down upon himself by this declaration were interrupted by the clang of the patrol wagon, which came down the street at a run. The three men on the wagon swung themselves down and cleared the crowd out of their way in a moment, and expeditiously lifted the limp gray body in. Donohue swung himself on the step and the wagon drove off at a decorous gait, leaving another police officer on the ground to watch the rapidly dispersing crowd.
Lyon, well aware that a more experienced hand than his own would be assigned to work up the story he had stumbled upon, deemed it his duty to report at once to the office instead of trying to do anything further on his own account, and hurried away to catch the car down-town. A man came up behind and fell into his own hurried gait to keep pace with him.
You've struck an exciting story, said Lawrence's voice.
Yes, said Lyon, eagerly. His eagerness was more due to the pleasant surprise of having Lawrence single him out to walk with than to anything else. His secret hero-worship had never brought him anything more than a friendly nod before.
Are you going to write it up?
I'll have to report for instructions. They'll probably send some one else up to the station to follow matters up, but perhaps the city editor will let me write up this part of it.
You have a good deal of responsibility, said Lawrence.
Responsibility?
I mean in the way of influencing public opinion.
I have nothing to do but to tell the facts, and there aren't many of them yet.
You have to select the facts to speak of, Lawrence said. He was keeping up with Lyon's quick pace, but his voice was so deliberate that it made Lyon unconsciously pull up.
I suppose so.
If you wanted to make a sensational report, for instance, you could work in the peaceful night and the deserted street and other things that really have no relation to the facts in such a way as to connect them in the public mind.
Yes, I suppose so.
That's what I meant about your responsibility,--responsibility to the public and responsibility to the individuals you may happen to work into your story.
Lyon nodded. He felt that there was something behind this not yet clear to him.
You were fortunate in being on the spot. You must have been the first man there. I was close behind you, I think. I was not far behind you when you came down Hemlock Avenue.
Then suddenly Lyon understood. It was quite as though Lawrence had said, "I hope you will not consider it necessary to mention that a minute or two after the time of the murder you saw a woman running in terror from the spot and going into a house where I call." He had quite forgotten the running girl for the moment. Now the sudden bringing together of the two ideas staggered him.
There are things that once said can never be unsaid, said Lawrence.
Yes.
That's why I am glad it has fallen into your hands to write it up instead of into the hands of some sensation monger who would not have the instinct of a gentleman about what to say and what to leave unsaid. By the way, it was you who identified the man as Fullerton, wasn't it?
Yes, said Lyon slowly. He recalled the fixed look that Lawrence had bent upon the body in silence. It was impossible that he had not recognized his enemy in the dead man. Why had he held back the natural impulse to speak his name?
I'll look for your report with interest. And, by the way, don't you lunch at the Tillamook Club? Look me up some day. I'm usually there between one and two. Glad to have seen you. Good night.
Lyon found that "story" more difficult to write up than he had anticipated.
To say that Waynscott was amazed on the appearance of the News the next morning would be to put it mildly. That a prominent lawyer should be found dead in the best residence quarter of the city at the early hour of ten, and that the police authorities should have nothing to offer, was enough to set the whole city talking. Fullerton had not been particularly popular, but he was a man of mark. A bachelor, he had lived at a fashionable apartment house, the Wellington; he had no family, no intimate friends, and there were men at his club who would not play with him, but still he was a personage. The city buzzed with the decorous joy of discussing a full-fledged sensation of its own.
Was it murder? Was it an accident? Had he any personal enemies? Was it highway robbery? What were the police good for, anyhow? The result of the coroner's inquest was awaited with the keenest interest.
The body had been taken to the morgue, and the inquest was held there the next day. The significant testimony, as it was sifted out, was as follows:
Donohue, the police officer, was called first. He testified that he had been at the corner of Oak and Grant Streets when he heard the Court House clock strike the quarter before ten. He had walked down Oak Street one block at a slow pace, and had turned south on Sherman Street, when his attention was caught by a gray something on the ground at the edge of the sidewalk. At first he thought it was a large dog. Then, as he walked toward it, he saw that it was a man fallen against the curbing. He touched him, lifted his head, and found that the man was not drunk but dead. He had heard no outcry, no disturbance, no sound of running.
After satisfying himself that the man was dead he had blown his whistle to call the officer on the next beat, and had sent him to telephone for the patrol wagon. The first person who came up was Mr. Lyon, but there soon was a crowd about them.
Did you recognize the body as Mr. Fullerton? the county attorney asked.
Not just at first, Donohue answered with some hesitation.
Did you know him by sight?
Yes, sir.
Yet you did not recognize him?
It was his coat. He didn't have that gray coat on usually,--not when I saw him before that evening.
When and where did you see him before that evening?
I was coming up Oak Street past the Wellington, and I saw Mr. Fullerton come out with a lady. They walked so slow that I passed them. Mr. Fullerton wore a long loose black topcoat. I noticed because he had both his hands stuck in his pockets. So when I found the man in a gray coat it threw me off. Afterwards-- Donohue hesitated again over his astonishing conclusion--"afterwards we found that he had his black coat on wrong side out. The inside was gray."
The overcoat was brought out for the jury and examined. It was a long, loose garment, black on the outside, gray on the inner. Though not intended for reversible wearing, it was obvious that it could have been easily turned. The question that at once occurred to every listener was whether the garment had been turned by Fullerton himself, or whether it had been hastily and carelessly put on him by some one else after he had fallen unconscious. This was obviously in the examiner's mind when he asked next,
Was the overcoat buttoned when you came upon him?
No, it was open.
How was the body lying?
In a heap, as though his knees had crumpled up under him.
Officer, did you see no one on the street from the time you left Oak Street and Grant Street until you found the body?
No one but Mr. Lawrence. It is a quiet neighborhood.
When and where did you see Mr. Lawrence?
On Grant Street, going toward Hemlock Avenue. He passed me while I was standing on the corner.
Just before you left the corner?
May be ten minutes before.
If you had walked straight down Grant Street to Hemlock Avenue, down Hemlock Avenue to Sherman Street, and up Sherman Street to the spot where the body was found, how long would it have taken you to get there?
Donohue considered carefully before he answered, "About seven minutes."
Was Mr. Lawrence walking rapidly?
You might call it so.
Officer, you spoke of seeing a lady with Mr. Fullerton when he left the Wellington earlier in the evening. Did you recognize the lady?
No, sir. I did not see her face. She wore a veil.
Did you notice anything else about her or her dress?
She wore a short fur coat and a muff. Her dress was dark. I noticed as I passed by that she was crying under her veil,--sort of sobbing to herself. That made me look sharp. Mr. Fullerton was walking kind of swaggering, with his hands in his pockets.
"Would you know the lady if you saw her again? If she wore the same clothes, I might,"" Donohue answered somewhat doubtfully.
"The physician, Dr. Sperry, who had pronounced Fullerton dead, was next called. He testified that he was returning from the concert, and was on Hemlock Avenue when he heard the police whistle. When he saw the crowd gathered on Sherman Street he had thought some one might be hurt, and had gone up to offer his professional assistance. He had found the man dead, with the mark of a severe blow on his temple.
Dr. Sperry, will you describe the appearance of the wound?
It was a bruise rather than a wound. The temple was indented, showing that the delicate bone there had been crushed in. The skin was broken, and the blood had oozed down the left side of the face.
Should you say that it was the mark of a heavy blow?
Yes, or a swinging blow. It was undoubtedly made by some dull instrument, heavy enough to crush, and yet with a metallic edge that cut the skin sharply.
Would such a blow cause death at once?
Instantaneously.
Can you say how long the man had been dead?
Not less than ten minutes. Not more than half an hour.
After an intimation that Dr. Sperry would be recalled later, Lyon was called.
Lyon had made no mention of the running girl in his report for the News, but he foresaw that that matter would come out in his examination, and he hastily resolved that there was one point of information which he would not volunteer,--the house which she had entered. Let them ask him, if they wanted to get at that!
He testified, in answer to the preliminary questions, that he was returning from the concert and was on Hemlock Avenue between Sherman and Hooker Streets when he heard the policeman's whistle and ran back to see what the disturbance was.
You had passed the corner of Sherman Street a few minutes before?
Yes.
And you saw nothing unusual?
I saw a man's muffler on the ground. I have turned it over to the officers.
The muffler was produced and examined. At one place the folds were stiff and matted together. The jury examined the stain.
Was this spot wet when you picked the muffler up?
I did not notice.
Did you see any one on the street?
While I was farther up on Hemlock Avenue I noticed a woman running across the street.
How was she dressed?
I was too far away to see.
Did she wear a veil?
I think not. I could not swear to it, however.
Did you see Mr. Lawrence?
No, not until I saw him in the crowd afterwards.
I believe it was you who first identified the body?
Yes.
Was Mr. Lawrence present when you did so?
Yes.
Did you see him examine the body?
I did not see him touch it.
Was he near enough to identify the body?
He was near enough, so far as that goes.
He did not volunteer any information as to who the dead man was, though he was near enough to recognize him, and presumably must have recognized him?
I did not hear him say anything.
Was the light sufficiently bright to enable you to see clearly?
It was rather a shadowy spot. There are lamps at the corners of the block only. We were standing about the middle of the block.
The next witness sprung the surprise of the day. He was a boy of eighteen, Ed Kenyon by name, who had been attracted by the quickly spreading report of a murder. Asked to tell his story, he said:
After the rest of the crowd had gone home, some of us fellows thought we would hunt for the murderer, so we made up a party and looked in all the alleys and went through some of the back yards around there. Right across the street from where the body was found there is a vacant lot. It is a good deal lower than the sidewalk and there is a fence at the inside edge of the walk to keep people from falling off. We looked over the fence and we could see that the snow had been tramped down, as though there had been a scrap or something, so we jumped in and explored for what we could find. When you are down inside the lot there is a hole under the sidewalk, and we found this poked in behind some weeds in the hole. And he produced the two pieces of a broken cane.
Lyon happened to glance at Lawrence at that moment, and he was startled by the look he surprised there. In an instant it was banished, and Lawrence's face was as non-committal, as impassive, as any in the room. But Lyon, watching him now in wonder, felt that the passivity was fixed there by a conscious effort of the will.
The county attorney then recalled Dr. Sperry.
In your opinion, could the fatal blow have been struck by such an instrument as this cane?
It would be quite possible.
Would such a blow be apt to break the cane?
That would depend on how it was held.
Will you examine the gold knob at the end of this piece and say whether you see anything to indicate that such a blow was actually struck with it?
There are a few short hairs caught by a rough place where the metal is joined to the wood. They look matted. It would require a scientific examination to determine whether that is blood or not.
Arthur Lawrence was then called.
Do you recognize this cane, Mr. Lawrence?
Yes, it is mine. My name is engraved around the gold top.
Will you inform the jury when you last had it in your possession?
I regret to say I cannot. I lost the cane sometime ago.
When and how did you lose it?
That I cannot say. I suppose I must have forgotten it somewhere. I simply know that I have not had it in my possession for some little time. I had missed it, but supposed it would eventually turn up and be returned to me, as my name was on it.
Please search your memory, Mr. Lawrence, as to the last time you had it in your possession.
Lawrence looked thoughtful.
I remember that I had it last Wednesday when I was in the State Library, because I used it to reach a book on the top shelf.
Did you leave it there?
I am under the impression that I took it away with me, but I have a careless habit of forgetting canes and umbrellas, and I had an exciting debate with Mr. Fullerton just before I left the room.
With Warren Fullerton?
Yes.
Did you leave the library with him?
No, I left alone. He was still there.
You were on Sherman Street last night?
Yes.
Will you give an account of your movements?
I was coming down Hemlock Avenue--
One moment. Where were you coming from?
I had been out for a tramp and was coming back. I had not been anywhere in particular.
How long had you been tramping?
Lawrence seemed to consider his answer before he spoke. "Something over an hour," he said.
Were you alone all that time?
Yes.
Did you see any one to speak to?
I spoke to Officer Donohue as I was coming back. I don't remember noticing any one else on my walk.
You may resume your account. You say you were coming down Hemlock Avenue,--
I was midway between Grant and Sherman Streets when I heard the policeman's whistle and I ran down to Sherman Street to see what the trouble was.
Did you see Mr. Lyon on Hemlock Avenue?
Yes.
Where was he?
He was going down the street ahead of me.
Mr. Lyon has testified that he was between Sherman and Hooker Streets when the whistle was heard. That would put him nearly a block ahead of you. Did you identify him at that distance?
He was not so far away when I first saw him.
Where was he when you first saw him?
On Hemlock Avenue between Grant and Sherman Streets.
Then you stood still, practically, while he walked a block?
He was certainly walking at a faster pace.
Was there any one else on the street?
I saw no one except the girl who ran across Hemlock Avenue, of whom Mr. Lyon spoke.
Can you describe her?
No. I was farther from her than Lyon was.
When you heard the policeman's whistle, did you go at once to the spot?
No, I paid no attention to it at first. Afterwards, when I saw a crowd was gathering, I fell in with the rest to see what had happened.
Did you recognize the body when you came up?
Yes.
Did you have any reason for refraining from so stating?
I was shocked and startled to see who the man was. I had no definite reason, either for speaking or for silence.
What were your personal relations with Mr. Fullerton?
We were not friendly.
When did you speak to him last?
Yesterday morning, in the Court House.
What was the nature of your conversation at that time?
It was of rather a violent nature, said Lawrence, with the slightest drawl. "I had occasion to slap his face."
The boys who had been with Ed Kenyon were called to corroborate his story of finding the broken cane. Lawrence had changed his seat, and now sat beside Lyon. He gave no sign of recognition at first, but after a few minutes, when there was a buzz of talk in the room, he turned to Lyon and said, with a casual air that could not conceal his intention,
You see what this is leading to. They will arrest me for the murder before I leave the room. Don't answer me. Only listen and remember. I am going to ask you to do me a favor,--the very greatest favor that any living man could do me. I want you to go to the house that girl entered and tell her that I am sending her word by you to keep from speaking of this affair. Make her understand that she must volunteer no information, make no explanation, say nothing, no matter what happens. She will hear of my arrest. Make her understand that arrest is a long way off from conviction. Make that as strong as you can. Tell her that no jury in the world would convict on such evidence. Make light of the whole thing as much as possible, but tell her that I implore and entreat--I would use a stronger word if I dared--that she say nothing to any one at any time in regard to this whole matter. To you I will say--and remember this--that I would rather die than to have her name entangled in this affair in any manner. I'll make a fight for it first, of course, but literally, I would rather go through with it to the bitter end than to have her life darkened by any shadow, and this would be a shadow that could never be lifted. If I could speak more strongly, I would. I am trusting this to you because I must get word to her at once and convincingly, and I dare not write,--and because I believe you are my friend. Her name is Edith Wolcott.
And before Lyon could frame any answer, Lawrence had slightly moved his position again, so as to put a space between them.
Lyon listened to the remaining testimony with attentive ears but a throbbing brain. He had been suddenly swept into the very center of the mystery. He knew no more than before, but knowledge was all around him, pressing against the thin walls of his ignorance. His own share in the evening's events suddenly became significant. Lawrence had made no mistake in choosing his envoy. Neither had he made any mistake in his diagnosis of the situation. Before he left the room, he had been arrested for the murder of Warren Fullerton.
Percy Lyon had a natural gift for human nature, as some people have for music or for mechanics. Unconsciously and instinctively, he could read character, and as with all instinctive knowledge, he was utterly unable to say how he reached his conclusions. His judgment had so often proved to be truer than appearances that it had surprised even himself. His success in his newspaper work depended almost wholly upon this gift. In news as news he had little interest, and he often chafed at the routine drudgery of his assignments, but when his work was to "write up" some one, whether it was a drunken tramp arrested for disorderly conduct, a visiting diplomat surrounded with mystery and red tape, a famous actress or an infamous trust-president, he was in his element. He would sit and look at his victim with quiet, dreaming eyes, listen with sympathetic attention to whatever he might say, and then go away and write up a sketch that would reveal the inner life of his subject's mind in a manner that was sometimes startling to the man himself.
Who told you that?--How did you find that out? was frequently asked.
And Lyon would laugh and pass it off as a joke, or if pressed, would probably answer, "Why, I don't know; that's what I should do, or feel, or think, if I were in his place.--I got that impression about him, that's all." But the point was that the impressions he received were so apt to be psychologically correct that it seemed almost uncanny. It was something like clairvoyance.
As he turned away from the inquest to carry out the mission that had so unexpectedly been entrusted to him, he felt perfectly convinced, in his own mind, of Lawrence's innocence.
In spite of the quarrel in the morning with its proof of Lawrence's temper and Fullerton's self-control, in spite of the damning fact that Lawrence's cane, broken and hidden, would appear to be the instrument with which the fatal blow was struck, in spite of the curious fact that Lawrence had held his peace when he must have recognized the dead man, Lyon found himself inwardly committed to the faith that Lawrence was not directly involved. He faced and set aside as simply unexplained the fact of Lawrence's presence in the neighborhood. By Donohue's testimony, Lawrence was going in the direction of the tragedy about half an hour before the body was discovered. By Lyon's own knowledge, Lawrence must have been behind him on Hemlock Avenue as he came down that block, else how had he, too, seen the running girl? In other words, he had spent half an hour loitering on the street of a winter night within a compass of two blocks. Of course the mystery involved the girl, for whose good name he was so deeply concerned.
How she was involved he could not even hazard a guess--until he should have seen her. Did Lawrence entertain the thought that she was involved in the affair in any other way than as a possible witness? If she was merely a disinterested witness, would he have felt bound, at such cost, to keep her from being called upon? Lyon felt that was a forced explanation. No, Lawrence must either know or believe that the girl was vitally connected with the murder. Nothing else would explain his anxiety on her behalf. Now, who was the girl? It was luck and great luck that he had so good a justification for calling, as otherwise he would have been forced to invent an occasion. It was beyond all reason to expect him to relinquish the pursuit of such a clue.
He made his way at once to the house where he had seen Lawrence call. His ring was answered by an elderly servant, slow and stiff in her movements. Lyon recalled with a smile his fancy that the running girl might possibly be the maid, hurrying to conceal a tardy return to the house. This woman could not run for a fire.
Is Miss Wolcott at home? he asked.
The woman looked dubious and discouraging. "I'll see," she said.
Please tell her that I will detain her only a moment, but that I have a very important message for her, Lyon said, giving the girl his card and quietly forcing his way past her into the reception room.
The old servant went slowly up-stairs, and Lyon took a swift survey of the room in which he was left, striving to guess the character of the owners. Books, pictures, flowers, all betokened refined and gentle ways of living. Unpretentious as it was, this was evidently the home of cultured people.
A slow step was heard in the hall, and an old man came to the door of the drawing room and looked in at Lyon with a mingling of mild dignity and child-like friendliness that was peculiarly attractive.
I thought I heard some one come in, he said, with obvious pleasure at finding his guess right. "Did you come to see my granddaughter?"
I have sent up my card to Miss Wolcott, Lyon answered.
She is my granddaughter. Didn't you know? the old gentleman asked, in surprise. "I am Aaron Wolcott, you know. Maybe you are a stranger in Wayscott."
Yes, I am a good deal of a stranger yet.
What is your name, may I ask?
Percy Lyon.
The old gentleman took a chair opposite and regarded him with cheerful interest. "I am pleased to meet you, Mr. Lyon. My granddaughter will be down soon. Eliza, our old servant, is slow because she has rheumatism. She's getting old,--but that isn't a crime, is it? I'll be getting old some time myself, I suppose. But I've got all my faculties yet, thank Heaven."
Have you lived in this house long? Lyon asked.
I built this house twenty-five years ago for my son,--Edith's father, you know. There have been many changes, many changes. He died when he was thirty, and his young wife followed him and left the baby Edith and me alone together. There's something wrong when young people die and old people are left. We should not outlive our children.
Do you mean that you live here entirely alone with your granddaughter? asked Lyon, quickly. This was significant.
Except for Eliza. Eliza is a good servant. Edith isn't much of a housekeeper. She doesn't care for anything but her music. But she's a good girl, Edith is.
Did you wish to see me? a cool, low voice asked at the door.
Lyon rose to his feet and bowed. "If you are Miss Wolcott, I have a message for you," he said, and by a pause he conveyed to her the idea that the message was for her alone.
Miss Wolcott regarded him for a moment with an observant scrutiny which she made no attempt to disguise, and then she turned to her grandfather.
It is time for your walk, Dandy, she said. She got him his overcoat, hat, and stick from the hall, and herself buttoned his coat up to his throat.
You see how she spoils me, Mr. Wolcott said, with evident pride in his voice. "I'm old enough to look out for myself."
Edith did not speak. In grave silence she gave him his gloves, and watched him put them on while Lyon as intently watched her. She was a tall girl of perhaps twenty-five, with eyes of midnight blackness, broad black eyebrows that drooped in straight heavy lines toward her temples, and black hair that was drawn in smooth, broad bands at the side of her head to repeat the drooping line of her brows. Her mouth drooped too, in lines too firm to be called pensive, too proud to be sad. Altogether it was a face of mystery,--a face not easily read, but not the less powerful in its attraction. Lyon had a swift comprehension of Lawrence's feeling.
If this woman was in any way connected with the murder, the matter was serious as well as delicate. Lyon's pulses began to tingle as a hunter's do when he sees a mysterious "track" which he does not understand.
She let her grandfather out at the front door, and then came back to the room where Lyon was waiting. Calmly seating herself, she bent an inquiring and unsmiling look upon him. It struck him that she had shown nothing of her grandfather's tendency to unnecessary words.
I have come at the request of Mr. Lawrence, who wished me to bring you a message, Lyon said.
There was something like a flash of light in her shadowy eyes, but whether it meant eagerness or anger, love or hate, Lyon could not say. She bent that same intent, unsmiling regard upon him, with only a deepening of its intentness, as though waiting for his next word with held breath.
Mr. Lawrence considered it important that I should see you personally and at once, since he could not come himself to explain his reasons for what may sound like an extraordinary request, he went on deliberately.
She moved restlessly. "I have not seen Mr. Lawrence since--"
Lyon interrupted. "Pardon me, may I give you the message before you say anything more? Mr. Lawrence has been arrested on the charge of killing Warren Fullerton--"
Oh, heavens, has it come to that? the girl gasped, with horror on her face.
Lyon raised a warning hand. "And his urgent request to you is that you refrain from giving any information which, you may possess in regard to the matter to any one. That of course includes myself."
Miss Wolcott was holding fast to the arms of the chair and her pallor seemed to have deepened visibly, but she did not lose her self-control for a moment.
Lyon would have given much to be able to tell whether the feeling which she obviously held back from expression was fear or concern or contempt.
You of course saw the account of the murder in the morning papers, he continued, deeming it advisable to put her in possession of the situation as fully as possible. "The inquest was held today, and Mr. Lawrence has been taken into custody,--merely on suspicion, of course. It is known that he had had a quarrel with Mr. Fullerton, and his broken cane was found in the neighborhood."
Miss Wolcott's intense eyes seemed trying to drag out his words faster than he could utter them, but she asked no questions.
This means that he will be held for the action of the Grand Jury, which will meet in about two weeks. Of course he will have an attorney to present his case. You are not to think that his arrest necessarily means anything worse than the necessity of making his innocence as obvious to the world at large as it is now to his friends. But in the meantime his great and immediate anxiety was that you should be warned to say nothing about the whole matter. Frankly, Miss Wolcott, I don't know whether your silence is to protect him or to protect some one else, but I do know that he was profoundly in earnest in hoping that you would preserve that silence unbroken as long as possible.
What do you mean by as long as possible? she asked, slowly.
If you should be summoned as a witness at the trial, you will of course have to tell everything within your knowledge connected with the affair.
She frowned thoughtfully. "Am I likely to be summoned as a witness?" she asked.
That will depend on whether the prosecuting attorney or Mr. Lawrence's attorney gets an idea that you have any information in your possession which will help his side of the case.
She sat very still, with downcast eyes, for a long moment. Lyon made a movement of rising, and she checked him.
One moment. When the trial comes off, will there be any way of my knowing how it is going?
It will be fully reported in the papers. You could be present in the court room if you think it advisable.
I will think of it, she said quietly. Then her splendid self-control wavered for a moment. "If I should feel that I had to talk to some one, to understand things,--would you--might I--"
May I come occasionally to tell you of any new developments? Lyon asked, simply.
Thank you. It will be kind of you.
I shall be very glad to keep you informed. And then he added deliberately, intending that however much she might veil her own sympathies there should be no doubt in her mind as to his position, "I am a friend of Mr. Lawrence's. That is why he entrusted me with this word for you."
She bowed, somewhat distantly, without speaking, and Lyon left.
When he got outside, he allowed himself to indulge in a moment of puzzled and half-reluctant admiration. What superb nerve! Her connection with this mysterious case was evidently a close and vital one, yet she had held herself so well in hand that it was impossible for him to say now, after this momentous interview, whether her sympathies were with Lawrence or not. She had most completely understood and heeded his injunction to keep silence, at any rate. Was the injunction needed, in the face of such self-control? What was it that lay behind that shield? Lyon felt as though his hands were being bound by invisible bands, and he had a frantic desire to break his way clear and force a way to an understanding of things. Turning a corner he came upon the old grandfather taking his leisurely constitutional in the sun, and instantly he realized that Providence had placed in his hands the means of removing some of his assorted varieties of ignorance,--if it is Providence who helps a man when he is trying to peer into his neighbor's business. There may be a difference in the point of view as to that. With a surreptitious glance at his watch, he fell into step beside Mr. Wolcott.
Your quiet neighborhood has made itself rather notorious, he began, at a safe distance from his objective point. "I suppose you first learned of the murder through the papers this morning. Or did you hear the excitement last night?"
I heard the grocer boy telling Eliza this morning, Mr. Wolcott answered. "I don't read the paper very much. My eyesight is all right,--my faculties are all as good as ever,--but they print the papers in such fine type nowadays, I don't care to read them."
Well, Miss Wolcott would surely have read it and noticed about the murder.
She wouldn't talk about it.
Of course it is not a pleasant thing to talk about.
That isn't all. You see, Edith was engaged to marry that Mr. Fullerton at one time.
Really? This was so startling a piece of information that Lyon stopped short in his surprise, trying to fit it into its place with the other things he knew or guessed. "Really!"
Don't let on I told you, said the old gentleman, confidentially. "Edith doesn't like to have me talk about her affairs. But that's the reason she is so strange to-day. Maybe you didn't notice, but she was very quiet all day."
Do you think that she cared for him still? demanded Lyon.
Oh, no, no! That's all past. But it must have given her a queer feeling to have him killed so near her own door. No, she didn't care for him. If he had died in some other way, I think she would have been glad. I'm not sure she isn't glad as it is, though maybe she was a little scared to have her wish come true.--It is kind of awful to have something up there take you at your word.
What makes you think that she would be glad?
Oh, I see things, if I am old. Edith doesn't think I notice, but I know more about things than she guesses. She said once that she wished he was dead.--I heard her.
Really? How was that?
I had gone to sleep on the couch in the library,--not really asleep, of course, but I was lying down to rest my eyes for a moment,--and Edith didn't know I was there. I woke up and saw her standing by the window looking out, and she was so excited that she was talking aloud to herself. She threw up both hands, like this, and said aloud,--'I wish to heaven you were dead, dead, dead!' Then she ran out of the room like a whirlwind, and I got up and looked out of the window. Mr. Fullerton was standing on the sidewalk, looking up at the house. He touched his hat when he saw me, and smiled a nasty, sarcastic kind of a smile, and walked off.
When was this?
Maybe two weeks ago.
Did you ever speak of it to anyone?
Never, not a word. Not to anybody except Lawrence.
Oh, you told Arthur Lawrence?
Yes, you see I like Lawrence, and I thought it was just as well to let him know that there wasn't anything between Edith and Fullerton any longer. I haven't forgotten about such things, even if I am getting to be an old man. You see, if Lawrence heard about that old engagement of Edith's it might make him hold off, so I just thought I'd let him know there wasn't anything to it now. It was all off.
What did Mr. Lawrence say?
Not much. But he made me tell him again just what she said, and what she did. I guess he was glad to have the old man tell him, all right.
You know Arthur Lawrence pretty well, don't you? Lyon asked abruptly.
The old gentleman chuckled. "Oh yes, I don't have much chance to forget Mr. Lawrence. Of course it isn't me that he comes to see, but still he's very civil to the old grandfather! A deal more civil than Mr. Fullerton ever was, by the same token. Edith was well off with that old love before she was on with the new."
Lyon was certainly getting more than he had expected. There was not much mystery now about the significance of Fullerton's slur on Lawrence for following in his footsteps, or about Lawrence's resentment. He was so absorbed in his own speculations on the subject that Mr. Wolcott had twice repeated a question before he heard it.
Do you know if Mr. Lawrence is out of town?
No, he is here.
He said Sunday he would bring me some new cigars the next time he came. I thought he might come last night, but he didn't. For that matter, Edith wasn't at home last night. Maybe he knew she wouldn't be. But she didn't tell me she was going to be out.
Indeed?
No, she didn't. But I found it out. Even if my own eyes are not as young as they were, I can see things that are right under my nose. Edith said she had a headache and would have to go to her room instead of playing cribbage with me. So I had to play solitaire, and I don't like to play solitaire of an evening. When I was young the evening was always the time for society, and I'm not so old that I want to be poked off in a corner to play solitaire. So I went to her room about ten o'clock to see if her head was better. We could have had a game of cribbage yet. Well, she wasn't there. She had gone out without saying a word to me. And while I was looking around she came in by the side door and came up the back stairs. I asked her where in the world she had been at that time of the night, and she never answered,--just went in to her room and locked the door. Now, do you think that is a proper way for a young woman to treat her elders? When I was young, we didn't dare to treat our elders in that way.
I am sure you didn't, said Lyon, soothingly.
And do you think it was proper for her to be out so late at night without saying anything to anyone in the house?
I am sure Miss Wolcott will be worried if you stay out so long, said Lyon, evasively. "She'll blame me for keeping you talking. Good-by. I am very glad to have met you. Some evening you must let me come and play a game of cribbage with you."
He turned to leave him, and then, with a sudden second thought, he came back. "Tell Miss Wolcott that I fell in with you, and that we had a pleasant chat," he said.
He had sufficient confidence in Miss Wolcott's discretion by this time to feel sure the message would set her to investigating the nature of the conversation, and possibly she would know how to sequestrate or suppress her garrulous relative until the peculiar circumstances of that evening should have faded out of his memory. The circumstances were so peculiar that Lyon could not help feeling it was fortunate that he, and not some police officer for instance, had received the old gentleman's confidences.
Lyon went straight to the jail to report to Lawrence. He had little difficulty in securing admittance, for the sheriff was sufficiently pliable and Lawrence sufficiently important to permit a softening of the rigors of prison discipline in his case. His arrest might, indeed, be considered merely a detention on suspicion until the Grand Jury had formally indicted him, and the sheriff had evidently considered that his duty was filled by ensuring his safety, without undue severity. The room was guarded without and barred within, but in itself it was more an austerely furnished bedroom than a cell, and Lawrence had more the air of a host receiving his guests than a prisoner. That, however, was Lawrence's way. It would have taken more than a stone wall and a locked door to force humiliation upon him. He tossed circumstances aside like impertinent meddlers, and scarcely condescended to be aware of their futile attempts to hamper him.
At the moment he was in consultation with his attorney, Howell,--or, rather, Howell was trying to hold a consultation with him, and, judging by his looks, not very successfully.
It is unfortunate that your memory should be so curiously unequal, Howell said drily, as Lyon entered.
If it is equal to the occasion, that's sufficient, Lawrence said carelessly. "Don't you be putting on airs with me, Howell. I'm your associate counsel in this affair. You go and see if you can get me out on bail, and then we'll talk some more. Hello, here's Lyon, of the News. At last I have attained to a distinction I have secretly longed for all my life. I am going to be interviewed."
If he succeeds In getting any really valuable information out of you, I'll take him on for associate counsel, grumbled Howell, as he gathered up his papers and took his departure.
Well? demanded Lawrence, the instant they were alone. His Celtic blue eyes were snapping with impatience.
I delivered your message. Judging from the balance of our interview, your hint was accepted.
Lawrence laughed. He threw himself down in his chair and laughed with a keen appreciation of the situation suggested by Lyon's words and a sudden relaxation of his nervous tension that struck Lyon as significant.
Come, you might tell me something more, considering! he said.
There isn't much that I know, said Lyon. But he understood very well what it was that Lawrence wanted and he went over his interview with a good deal of detail. Lawrence sat silent, listening, with his hand hiding his mouth and his eyes veiled by their drooping lids. At the end he drew a long breath and slowly stretched his arms above his head.
Well, that's all right, and you're a jewel of an ambassador, he said. Then suddenly he pushed the whole subject away with an airy wave of his hand. "You are here on professional business, I suppose. Are you going to write up my picturesque appearance in my barren cell, or do you want my opinion of Yeats' poetry or on the defects of the jury system? By Jove, old man, you'd have to hunt hard to ask for something that I wouldn't give you."
I am very glad you gave me the opportunity, said Lyon simply. Then he hesitated. He had an instinctive feeling that, as a mere ambassador, he must not presume to assert any personal interest in the situation, and yet he felt there was something which Lawrence might consider important in the old gentleman's revelation. Of course he could not repeat the whole of that conversation! That, luckily, was not necessary. But if he might venture on the friendly interest which he really felt, he must mention one item.
I met Miss Wolcott's grandfather, he said, with the casual air of one who is filling in a conversational break. "He inquired if you were in town,--said he had expected you to call Monday night, but supposed perhaps you had not done so, because you knew Miss Wolcott was to be out."
Lawrence looked up sharply.
He said that, did he?
Yes. He seemed to be cherishing a grievance because she had gone out without notifying him, and because she let herself in by the side-door when she returned at ten o'clock.
Lawrence looked at him with concentrated gaze.
I wonder to how many people he has confided his grievance, he said slowly. "He doesn't see very many people, and he is apt to forget things in time. We'll have to hope for the best. Here's to his poor memory!"
If the subject isn't revived! But I gathered that he doesn't read the papers.
No, his eyesight is really very bad, though of course he won't admit it. If worst came to worst,--I mean if his testimony came into the case,--it would not be difficult to cast some uncertainty on the time. He couldn't read the face of a watch, I feel sure.
Then here's to his poor eyes, said Lyon with a smile.
And Lawrence laughed and shook hands with him with a tacit acceptance of his partisanship that bound Lyon to him more strongly than any formal words could have done. Indeed, when Lyon went away he considered himself pledged, heart and soul, to Lawrence's cause. No henchman of the days of chivalry ever felt a more passionate throb of devotion to an unfortunate chieftain than this quiet, self-effacing young reporter felt for the brilliant and audacious man who was so evidently determined to play a lone hand against fate. This feeling was in no respect lessened by the possibility which he had been forced to consider that Lawrence might in fact be much more nearly involved than he had at first supposed. Men had been swept away from the moorings of convention and morality by the passions of love and hate ever since the world began, and Lawrence, for all his breeding and gentleness, was a man of vital passions. No one could know him at all and fail to recognize that. And he had loved Miss Wolcott and hated Fullerton; that was clear. But the question of whether he was, in fact, guilty or innocent, was merely secondary. The first question for Lyon, as for any true and loyal clansman it must always be, was merely by what means and to what extent he could serve him. And that settled once and for all the question of his own obligation to speak. The cause of justice might demand that he should give Howell a hint as to important witnesses. The language in which he mentally consigned the cause of justice to the scaffold was not exactly feminine, but the sentiment behind it was peculiarly and winningly feminine. If Lawrence wanted this thing, he should be allowed to have it, and the cause of justice might go hang.
At the same time, he was absorbed in a constant speculation on the facts of the case. The little light he had gained only made the darkness more visible. If Lawrence had indeed struck the fatal blow, how had it come about? Had he encountered Fullerton and Miss Wolcott together, and had there been a sudden quarrel with this unexpected termination? Then Miss Wolcott was the sole witness, and Lawrence's injunction to silence was easy enough to understand. That was of course the most obvious explanation, though on that theory it was hard to understand Lawrence's amazement when his cane had been produced at the inquest. On the other hand, if Lawrence's tale was true about his being behind Lyon on Hemlock Avenue, then his persistent evasion of all really conclusive proof of his alibi must be due to his determination to shield Miss Wolcott. Did he think it possible that she herself was the murderer? It was necessary to consider even that possibility. Lyon recalled the girl's sphinx-like composure, and he was by no means sure that it might not cover passional possibilities which could, on occasion, burst into devastating force. She was the sort of woman who would be quite equal to taking the law into her own hands if she felt it expedient to do so. Lyon knew the brooding type. If, for instance, she loved Lawrence, and if she felt that Fullerton stood between them, and particularly if she had any cause for bitterness against Fullerton which would make her feel that in slaying him she was an instrument of justice,--well, tragedies were happening every day that were no more difficult of belief. She was not an ordinary woman; and when a woman breaks through the lines of convention she will go farther than a man. She had had a grudge against Fullerton, she had prayed for his death, she had been on the spot when he was killed. Whether she struck the blow herself or not, it was clear that her connection with the affair was intimate. If she was the woman Donohue had seen in Fullerton's company when they left the Wellington together, it would seem that she had been agitated to the point of sobbing aloud as she walked beside him. Any emotion that could reduce Miss Wolcott to sobs must have been powerful. All this Lawrence knew as well as Lyon, but it was conceivable that he knew more. Had he been a witness of the murder, if not an actor in it? How had his cane come to be on the spot unless he had been there himself? And the fact that Fullerton's overcoat had been turned seemed to indicate a deliberate attempt at concealment which did not accord with the girl's frantic flight from the spot. Some one else had been involved in that, some one with steady nerves and a cool head. In all the uncertainty, the one thing clear was that Lawrence had been so concerned about protecting the girl that he had almost seemed to invite rather than to repel suspicion. Whether the Grand Jury would consider the evidence against him as strong enough to warrant an indictment remained to be seen, but if it did not, it would not be because of any efforts on Lawrence's own part. That unfortunate public quarrel in the Court House was a serious complication, and since the murder that point had been much before the public. Half a dozen different versions had been given by as many positive eye-witnesses. That they differed so widely in detail only made the public more certain that there must have been something very serious in it. The wiseacres who had prophesied that something would come of it took credit to themselves.
It was merely from curiosity, and with no idea of the discovery he was about to make, that Lyon went to Hemlock Avenue that evening at ten to retrace the course he had taken the night before. He wanted to fix the scene in his memory definitely, and to take note of what he had seen and what he might have seen if he had looked. He stopped at the place where he had seen the running girl, and looked about. Certainly she had come from Sherman Street, and, cutting diagonally across Hemlock Avenue, had crossed the field of his vision squarely. He shut his eyes for an instant to recall the scene. She ran well,--he could see now that swift, sure flight. Was it possible that the statuesque Miss Wolcott could ever forget herself in that Diana-like run? Somehow the picture, as he now looked at it, was not like Miss Wolcott. It was lither, quicker, than he could imagine her. Yet there was no question about her running in at the Wolcott house. Stay, was he so sure of that? He had not seen her enter. She had simply run in by the walk that led to the side door. Could she have gone through the Wolcott yard on her way elsewhere? If the running girl was not in fact Miss Wolcott, then his whole theory fell down. Trusting to luck and the inspiration of the moment if he should be challenged, Lyon coolly followed the concrete walk past the side door into the Wolcott back yard. It was a sixty foot lot, running back about a hundred feet. At the front it was unfenced and open to the street, but at the back and on the two sides back of the rear line of the houses it was enclosed by a close board wall six feet high. By the posts and the clothes lines here, it was evident that the back yard was consecrated to Eliza and wash day. So far as might be seen, there was no gate in the enclosing wall. Was there an alley beyond or did this lot abut on the lot which faced on the next street south,--Locust? Lyon felt that might be an important question, and he went down to the corner of the lot and pulled himself up by his hands to look over the top of the wall. He satisfied himself of two points,--that there was no alley between this lot and the adjoining one, and that the board which he had laid his hand upon was not firm. He bent down to examine it. It was a broad board near the left corner of the wall. It was fastened to the upper cross-piece of the fence by a single large spike, and the lower end was unnailed. The effect of this was that while it hung straight in its place so long as it was untouched the lower end could be easily swung on that upper spike as a pivot, leaving a triangular aperture at the bottom quite large enough for a slender person to squeeze through. To test it, Lyon pulled himself through, and swung the board back into its place. He found himself in a large enclosed space, boarded in on all sides except the front, where a high wire fence separated it from the street. With a certain astonishment, Lyon recognized his surroundings. He was in the enclosed grounds of Miss Elliott's Private School for Girls on Locust Avenue,--a highly select and exclusive establishment. Was it as easy to get out as to get in? He hesitated a moment before deciding on further explorations, but the trees in the yard gave him the aid of convenient shadows, and he cautiously followed the wall around the lot, trying each board. There were no more secret panels. Everything was as firm as it looked. He had thought to get out by the gate on Locust Avenue, for it somehow touched his dignity to crawl out by the little hole that had admitted him, but to his surprise he found that the wire fence, which enclosed the lot on the front, came up to the house itself in such a way that no exit could be made on that side except through the house. Moreover the fence was too high to jump, even for him. Emboldened by the fact that the house was as entirely dark as though it were vacant, Lyon made another and even more careful examination of the enclosing wall. There was no break, and he was forced to make his way out, as he had come in, by Miss Wolcott's back yard.
He regained the open street with a tingling pulse. Perhaps his discovery meant nothing,--but perhaps it meant everything. It might enable him in time to tell Lawrence that the running girl was not Edith Wolcott. The sudden recognition of that possibility excited him keenly. Could it be that Lawrence had mistakenly jumped to the same conclusion that he had? Were Lawrence and Miss Wolcott both keeping silence, each to shield the other, while the guilty person made her escape through the sacred precincts of Miss Elliott's select school? He would interview Miss Elliott to-morrow.
It was two o'clock in the afternoon of the next day before Lyon found it possible to carry out his plan to interview Miss Elliott. As he approached the select School on Locust Avenue, he noticed a doctor's runabout fastened before the door, and, as he came up, a young physician whom he knew well. Dr. Barry, came down the steps. Lyon had often found it useful to assume a curiosity when he had it not, and he at once seized his opportunity.
How is your patient? he asked with an assured air.
What do you know about my patient? Barry asked in obvious surprise.
Lyon in fact knew so little that he deemed it advisable to answer this question with another.
Will she be able to see me?
You newspaper men beat the devil! How did you find out she was here? She particularly wanted to keep it quiet. Miss Elliott called me in with as much secrecy and mystery as though her guest were a royalty traveling incog., and here I find you on the steps ready to interview her for the benefit of the whole public.
You don't understand, said Lyon quietly. "The only way to keep things out of the newspapers is to take the newspaper men into your confidence. By the way, is her ailment serious?"
Puzzling. Disordered state of the nerves, said Barry, frowning.
Lyon laughed. "Don't put on professional airs with me."
That's straight. It looks very much like nervous shock. I don't at all approve of her seeing visitors.
Then why don't you forbid it? fished Lyon with curiosity.
I'm too young and she's too important, laughed Barry as he jumped into the runabout. "I haven't the nerve to give orders to the wife of a multimillionaire." And he drove rapidly off.
Lyon rang the bell with a feeling of exhilaration. He was making progress.
"While the neat servant who answered his ring took his card to Miss Elliott, Lyon waited in the reception room and hastily reviewed his facts. The wife of a multimillionaire traveling incog., and suffering from nervous shock. How could he surprise Miss Elliott into giving him her name? In a few minutes Miss Elliott stood before him, looking from his card to him with a severe and discouraging air. It was an air which Lyon had encountered before when pursuing the elusive interview. I am not here in my professional capacity,"" he said with a disarming smile. ""I wanted to make some personal inquiries about your school in behalf of a friend in Cleveland.""
"Miss Elliott softened. "This is not a very good time to see the school," she said. "This is the Thanksgiving vacation, you know, and the pupils and teachers have all gone home."
I didn't think of that. When did they go?
The term closed last Friday. The pupils all scattered on Saturday. We resume class work next Monday.
Then you have been practically alone in the building with your servants this week, Lyon said blandly. This was significant. The murder had taken place on Monday evening, and it was a big gain to know that he might eliminate a score of Miss Elliott's pupils from connection with the running girl. It seemed to make the problem much simpler.
Might I look over the building? he asked as Miss Elliott responded to his last question with a somewhat chill bow. "My friend will be interested In knowing the general plan of the school rooms."
I shall be glad to show them to you. said Miss Elliott.
Lyon listened deferentially while Miss Elliott explained the uses of the various rooms through which she conducted him. The building was a large square old-fashioned house, the first floor of which contained Miss Elliott's own suite, several large school rooms, and, in the rear, some rooms into which she did not take him, and to which she vaguely referred as "my resident teachers' apartments." Lyon guessed at once that this was where her distinguished guest was quartered,--a guess which was confirmed when the second story was thrown wholly open to him. He took special note of the window fastenings and saw at once that it would be the simplest thing in the world to throw open a window and slip out into the large inclosed yard.
Your high wall suggests a convent school, he said with a smile. "Are your young ladles as carefully secluded as that wall would suggest?"
That is one of the features of the school, Miss Elliott said, somewhat primly. "We aim to give the care and guidance of a home to our pupils. During lesson hours and at all other hours, they are safeguarded, and are never unattended. We know exactly where they are all the time, and what they are doing."
A wise arrangement.
During the school year, this large yard is our outdoor gymnasium. The girls take their exercise here free from all observation. There is no entrance to the grounds, except through the house.
An admirable plan. In fact, your arrangements are all so admirable that I do not wonder at the reputation which your school has achieved. And the social atmosphere is, I know, of the best.
We are exceedingly particular about whom we admit, conceded Miss Elliott, with modest gratification.
Oh, I am aware of that, and of your distinguished patronesses. The name of the lady whom you are at present entertaining is alone a sufficient guarantee. Oh, don't be afraid that I am going to put an item about her in the paper! A newspaper man respects confidences, and I understand that she does not wish her presence here to be heralded abroad. In fact, I may say that professionally I am quite ignorant as to her presence here, but personally and privately,--you understand,-- And he smiled intelligently.
Miss Elliott bowed. "Mrs. Woods Broughton is an old personal friend," she said simply. "She used to live in Waynscott, you know, before her marriage. There are so many people here who used to know her that she would have no chance for a quiet rest if it became known that she was here, and she is very much in need of a quiet rest."
Lyon looked sympathetic. "Yes, a nervous shock I understand from Dr. Barry. I hope she is improving."
I think she is in better spirits than when she came, though any nervous disturbance is hard to understand.
Will she remain after the school reopens?
Necessarily, for awhile. She is not in condition to travel.
Lyon left the building in so abstracted a state of mind that he fairly ran into a man on the sidewalk. With a hastily muttered apology, he hurried on. The discovery that the mysterious woman was Mrs. Woods Broughton was, in a way, staggering. As well connect any other national celebrity with small local affairs. Mrs. Woods Broughton's name was known throughout the country, not only because of her husband's wealth and position, but because of the more or less romantic circumstances attending her marriage. She had been Mrs. Vanderburg when Broughton met her and fell in love with her, and everybody knew that the divorce which she had procured shortly afterwards had been merely a preliminary to the brilliant wedding which had set the newspapers agog. It had been a very decorous and unsensational divorce, without a breath of scandal, for Vanderburg had been an unknown quantity for so many years that no exception could be taken to the deserted wife's action in securing legal recognition of her practical and actual independence. Still, the need of securing a divorce might never have occurred to her if Woods Broughton had not come into her life. Lyon remembered the story in its general outline, though he had forgotten that the scene of it was Waynscott. The papers had been featuring the wedding at the time he began his career as a reporter in Cleveland, and the whole affair had taken on a special and personal interest to him from the fact that about six weeks later he had himself met the divorced husband, Vanderburg, under dramatic circumstances. He had been traveling a long afternoon in Ohio, and had struck up a traveling acquaintance with a clever, cynical, world-worn man in the smoking car. Percy Lyon's experiences at that time had been somewhat limited, and he had never before encountered the particular variety of liveliness which this sophisticated traveler afforded. He had apparently been in all quarters of the globe, and if his tales had something of a Munchausen quality, they were none the less entertaining for that. The interruption of his last tale had been tragic. There had been a sudden grinding of the wheels on the rails, a tearing crash, and then confusion, horrible and soul-shaking. When Lyon began to think consecutively again, he found that he was frantically tugging at the crushed seat which was pinning his companion to the floor of the overturned car. Help answered promptly to his shout, and they soon had the man out, but he was unconscious and so badly hurt that the physician shook his head gravely.
Better telegraph for his friends, if you can find out who they are.
Lyon, in the absence of any closer acquaintance, had searched the unconscious man's pockets for a clue to his identity, and in an inner pocket he found an old note-book with the name "William H. Vanderburg" written on the fly-leaf. The name had suggested nothing to his mind at the moment, and while he was looking further for an address, the man's eyes had opened slowly and taken the situation in with full intelligence.
You have nothing to do with that book, he said harshly. "If it's my name you are hunting for, Enoch Arden will do for my headstone. I have no friends to notify, and you will please me best if you bury me and forget about me, and particularly keep that name out of the papers. I have a right--" But the effort was too much. He gasped and fell back dead. Lyon had been so impressed by the stranger's peculiarly commanding personality that he had respected his wish to be left unidentified. He considered that the bare accident that he had stumbled upon the man's real name did not justify him in disregarding the owner's wish to keep it concealed, and he did not change his view when he saw that a bunch of newspaper clippings which had fallen out of the note-book related to the divorce granted to Grace Vanderburg. Lyon reviewed the situation as fully as it was known to him. Mrs. Vanderburg had secured a legal separation in the courts and had married again. The decree was based on the representation that William H. Vanderburg had deserted his wife and had been unheard of for over twelve years. Whether William Vanderburg had intended to make difficulties or not, Lyon had no means of guessing, but if he had, certainly his death had closed the incident for ever. The unintentional witness slipped the old note-book into his own pocket and allowed the railroad company to bury the body of "One unidentified man."
That was all three years in the past, or thereabouts, and now he had been brought most curiously across the path of that dead man's former wife. Truly, the Goddess of Accident was throwing her shuttle with what almost looked like design. Was his imagination running wild in suggesting to him a possible identity between this woman of uncommon experience, wealth, and social standing, and the woman who had fled in a panic from the scene of Fullerton's murder? He felt that he was in danger of making himself absurd by harboring such a thought for a moment, but with the desire which was characteristic of him to get at the bottom facts, he went directly to the office of the clerk of the Circuit Court.
I want to verify some dates in connection with that Vanderburg divorce case, he said, to the lounging official in charge. "Would it be possible for me to look at the record?"
I have the papers right here, as it happens, the clerk answered. "Curious you should call for them. I made a transcript of that case for Warren Fullerton a week or two ago."
Did you, really? Lyon exclaimed in surprise. "What did he want it for?"
Dunno. He was Mrs. Vanderburg's attorney, you know.
I didn't remember, said Lyon thoughtfully. It was beginning to look interesting. There was, then, an established relation of some sort between Mrs. Broughton and Fullerton. Just what did it mean?
He felt that he was on the way to finding out when he reached his rooms that evening, for he found awaiting him a special delivery letter containing the following somewhat imperiously worded invitation:
Mrs. Woods Broughton will be greatly indebted to Mr. Percy Lyon if he can call upon her this evening. She appreciates his courtesy in respecting her wish that her visit should not be made a matter of public gossip. He will add to her obligations by giving her an opportunity for a personal interview.
Lyon got into his evening clothes with a jubilation that does not always accompany an evening call. He felt that the fates were playing into his hands.
Lyon was evidently expected, for he was conducted at once to the rooms which had been closed to him in the afternoon, and there he found Mrs. Broughton awaiting him. He was prepared to be interested in the woman whose story had so curiously touched his own experiences, but when he came into her presence he forgot that he was before the woman whose first husband he had buried, and whose second husband was a man heralded by headlines across a continent. He only saw a frail, slight, beautiful woman, with a wistful sweetness in her eyes, propped against high pillows on a couch. She looked so ill, so like a fluttering candle in the wind, that his concern must have betrayed itself, for she smiled at him with an air of reassurance.
It was kind of you to come so promptly at a stranger's request, she said gently. "Miss Elliott told me of your visit this afternoon, and I wanted to thank you for respecting my wish to remain unknown to the general public. I wonder how you came to know?"
It was mostly an accident, Lyon murmured. "I come across a good deal of incidental information, you know."
You newspaper men are so clever, she said, and Lyon wondered whether his imagination was playing him tricks or whether there really was something like fear lurking in her eyes. Certainly her hands were fluttering with nervousness, and her breath came and went in hurried gasps that meant either extreme weakness or emotion. With an obvious effort that awoke his admiration, she pulled herself together and went on in a stronger voice.
That was not the reason I had for wishing to see you, however. I wanted to ask you some questions that you, as a newspaper man, could answer better than anyone else; and since you already knew of my presence here, I could speak to you without spreading that insignificant bit of information any further than it has gone already.
I shall be very happy if I can be of any service, Lyon answered, with more sincerity than usually goes into the polite phrase. He felt, really, that nothing earth could offer would rejoice him more, just then, than to have her ask questions, for nothing would more certainly reveal where her own interests and anxieties lay. But she seemed to find it difficult to begin, for a long pause followed,--a pause which he would not break, and which apparently she could not. At last she said, with an abruptness that made her voice tense,
I was very much shocked by that tragedy Monday.
Lyon nodded, and kept his eyes lowered to remind her of his presence as little as possible. But, he wondered, why did she say Monday? If her knowledge of it came through the papers, the shock could not have reached her until Tuesday. And how else could she have known, unless--
You see, I used to know--Mr. Lawrence, she said.
(Had she meant to say Mr. Fullerton, Lyon wondered, and veered from the name? Since Fullerton had been her lawyer, she certainly had known him, also.)
That is why, she continued, "I am anxious to learn anything that you can tell me,--anything more significant than the reports in the public prints, I mean."
There isn't much known. That is the difficulty of the situation. If you read the account of the inquest, you saw that Mr. Lawrence was merely held on suspicion, because the police had not been able to find any one else to hold. Of course it does not follow that they will not discover some other clue.
She listened with tense interest. "The law is terrible," she said with an involuntary shudder. "You never know what it is going to do. It is like a wild beast, waiting to spring. It terrifies me to think of Mr. Lawrence being actually in jail, but--they will have to let him go, won't they? He can't really be in any serious danger?"
The circumstances were sufficient to warrant his arrest. Unless he can clear himself, or unless the real murderer is discovered, his situation is certainly serious.
I can't bear to think of it! she cried nervously, pressing an embroidered handkerchief hard against her trembling lips. "Why, Arthur Lawrence always was the very soul of honor. It's horrible to have him involved,--"
Yes, it is, said Lyon simply.
Has he a good attorney? If it's a question of getting the very best lawyer in the country to defend him, would it be possible for me--Oh, I have heaps of money, you know, and if it could possibly do anything for an old friend--
Did you wish me to make that suggestion to Mr. Lawrence? Lyon asked.
I don't know, she said helplessly. "I think I wanted your advice. If Mr. Lawrence is sure to be cleared anyhow,--" she hesitated irresolutely. "Perhaps I would better wait awhile and see how things go," she concluded, as Lyon gave her no help.
I think the help that Lawrence stands in need of, said Lyon, deliberately, "is not money, but information that will clear up the case."
She started up nervously. "But I couldn't give that. I haven't any information. You didn't think--"
I was only supposing a case.
I should like to do something, but I don't know how I can. He has done much for me, without counting the cost to himself. I have reason to be grateful to Mr. Lawrence. Will you remember that, and if anything suggests itself to you that would give me an opportunity to do anything for him, will you let me know?
Is It your intention to stay here for some time, then? Lyon said.
She looked helpless and undecided. "I--don't know. I didn't mean to, but I don't feel very strong. I think I may stay for a week longer. I need rest. I have had some distressing news. It has unnerved me."
This is a restful place, Lyon said sympathetically. "It was fortunate that Miss Elliott's school was closed this week. You have been as quiet and undisturbed here as though you had been quartered in a rest-cure sanitarium, haven't you?" He had put the rather too personal question with intention, meaning to see how she would take it, but he was not prepared for its effect upon her. She looked at him with startled nervousness and laughed,--and then continued to laugh and laugh as though he had made an irresistible joke. Lyon waited for her to recover her poise, and it was not until her wild laughter changed suddenly to wilder sobs that he realized she was in the grip of nervous hysteria. He hastily rang the bell and then went out into the hall himself to meet the slow-answering maid and send her whirling back to bring Miss Elliott.
Shall I telephone for Dr. Barry? he whispered, when Miss Elliott had come and taken the still sobbing woman in her arms.
Yes, do, for goodness' sake. What in the world started her? Miss Elliott answered, distractedly. The situation was so alien to her rule-regulated life that she looked bewildered by it.
Lyon neglected the second part of her speech to attend to the first. He found the telephone in the hall, and got Barry.
Hello, Dr. Barry. This is a message from Miss Elliott. She wants you to come at once to see Mrs. Broughton.
That you, Lyon?
Yes.
What's the matter with Mrs. Broughton?
She's crying and laughing together in a way to make your blood run cold. For heaven's sake, hurry along.
If you have been upsetting that woman, I won't answer for the consequences, exclaimed Barry, with indignant emphasis.
Then get over here as quick as you can and take it out of me afterwards, retorted Lyon, hanging up the receiver. He went back to Mrs. Broughton's door. The sobbing had ceased, and after waiting a moment Lyon caught one of the excited servants and sent her in to Miss Elliott with an inquiry and an offer of service. She answered that there was nothing more he could do, so he quietly let himself out of the house.
He had gone several blocks from the school when he became aware of the fact that a man on the opposite side of the street seemed to be keeping an eye on his movements. Was he himself an object of interest to someone connected with the case? He was conscious now that he had seen the man across the street without heeding him when he stepped out from the house, and he recalled the fact that he had fairly stumbled into the arms of a man in that same neighborhood when he came out in the afternoon. Possibly the man perceived himself observed, for he quickened his pace. But at the end of the block he crossed the street and came back on Lyon's side. Lyon looked sharply at him as they passed each other, but the man's face was indistinguishable in the shadow. It was only after he had passed on that Lyon remembered that the light from the street lamp must have fallen full upon his own face. Well, he had no reason to mind being identified.
When Lyon reached his rooms he proceeded to put into effect an ingenious little scheme that had occurred to him. He studied Miss Elliott's catalogue till he found the name of a pupil from a town where he had some personal acquaintance. He then wrote an appealing letter to an influential woman whom he knew there, telling her of his lonely state as a stranger in a strange city, and begging that if she knew a Miss Kitty Tayntor of her own town who was attending Miss Elliott's school in Waynscott, she send him forthwith a letter of introduction.
Conscience and interest in the "case" combined prompted Lyon to call upon Dr. Barry early the next day and inquire how Mrs. Broughton was.
Just about as ill as she can be, the doctor answered grimly. "I had left special orders that she was not to see anyone. What in thunder did you mean by forcing yourself upon her in that way?"
I didn't. She sent for me.
Sent for you? What for?
She wanted to ask me something about the Fullerton case.
Are you serious?
Certainly.
And was that what you had been talking about when she had that attack?
Yes, in general. She used to know Lawrence, and what she particularly wanted to know was whether his situation was serious. She did not seem hysterical at all, or even specially nervous, until she went off suddenly at the end into that awful laughter.
Well, if she should send for you again, you are not to go without letting me know first. Frankly, I consider that her reason is trembling in the balance, and the greatest care will be necessary to pull her through the crisis safely. I have a trained nurse with her now, and she is not to be allowed to see anyone till the danger point is passed.
I wish you would let me know when I may safely call upon her.
That won't be for some time yet. What do you want to see her about?
She entrusted me with a commission. I want to report upon it.
She probably won't remember it when she recovers. I don't consider that she was really responsible for what she may have said or done yesterday. She has had some sort of nervous shock that has shaken her entirely out of the normal. It will take a long time before she is herself.
When did she call you in? Lyon asked abruptly.
Tuesday afternoon. Why?
Oh, I just wondered how you came to know so much. Good-by.
He went away with a sense of bafflement. That Mrs. Broughton was in some way connected with the tragedy, and that the nervous shock from which she suffered dated from that evening, seemed to have been made so patent that he had all the eagerness of the hunter to run the facts down. And yet to do so under the present circumstances was almost brutal. How could he raise a breath of suspicion against a woman who was trembling on the verge of mental derangement as a consequence of what he had seen or had possibly had a share in? And yet if the truth would serve to clear two innocent people from suspicion, could he justify himself in not speaking? More and more he felt inclined to entertain the idea that the woman he had seen running across the street was Mrs. Broughton. If he could but establish this as a fact and so clear Lawrence's mind of the conviction that it was Miss Wolcott, he felt that Lawrence would probably be able to clear himself of the shadow under which he rested without difficulty. Brutal or not, he must get the facts,--quietly if possible, but he must get them. It would be more brutal to let the innocent suffer than to fix the crime upon the guilty, however sympathetic he might feel toward the latter. He determined to go quietly on and gather what information he could without at present sharing his suspicions with anyone. With this end in view he went to the Wellington, Fullerton's home.
He hunted up the elevator boy in the first place, and soon established a thoroughly satisfactory understanding with him on the basis of some theater tickets.
Now I want to see how good a memory you have, Johnny. You know that lady who came to see Mr. Fullerton that evening,--
Yes, sir, I remember all about her.
Did you know who she was?
No, sir, she kept her veil down all the time. But she was an elegant lady. She had on a dress that swished when she walked, and an elegant muff and coat.
What were they like?
Why, just fur.
There are lots of kinds of fur. Did you notice particularly?
Why, dark fur, I guess, Johnny answered hopefully. "Yes, elegant black fur."
Lyon saw he was improvising and passed on to another point.
What time did she come?
John brightened into positiveness. "Half past seven. I know that for sure, because that was when I told her she would be apt to find him, and so I was watching out for her when she came."
Oh, then she had been here before?
Yes, she came twice in the afternoon, but Mr. Fullerton was out. I told her she would find him for sure if she came at half past seven, because he wouldn't be going out in the evening before eight, but she was so anxious that she came again about four o'clock. I knew he wouldn't be here then, and it was just as I said.
When you told her to come at half past seven, didn't she look at her watch?
Yes, she did!
What kind of a watch was it?
A little watch. I don't remember. But, gee, It was on a dandy chain all right!
I don't believe you remember the chain any better than you do the watch.
Yes, I do. It was a long chain that went around the neck and she wore it outside of her coat, dangling, with a purse at the end. The watch was inside the purse. The chain was gold, with red stones in it here and there, and they sparkled like anything.
Lyon recognized the fidelity of the description. Mrs. Broughton had worn a long chain of enameled gold links, set with rubies magnificent enough to have excited the admiration of even less appreciative observers than an elevator boy. It would be crediting too much to coincidence to suppose that there could be another chain of so unusual a style worn by someone else that day.
Had that lady ever been here before? he asked.
Johnny was positive on that score. "No, she was a stranger. The first time she came, early in the afternoon, she didn't know where his room was, and I took her around and rang the bell for her myself. I never seen her before. She had a funny way of talking,--'Misteh Fullehton,'"--and he mimicked the soft evasion of the "r" that had characterized Mrs. Broughton's speech.
Good for you, Johnny. You are doing well. Now do you know when she went away?
She and Mr. Fullerton went out together about eight o'clock.
Now think carefully about this. Was there any other lady who came to see Mr. Fullerton that afternoon?
No.
Or in the forenoon or in the evening? Any time at all on Monday?
Johnny looked a little uncertain of his ground.
They don't always say who they want. They just say 'Second floor,' or 'fifth,' you know. And sometimes they walk up.
Then if there was anyone else who came to see Mr. Fullerton that day, you wouldn't know about it?
Johnny dived into his memory.
There was another lady here that evening, but I don't know who she wanted to see. She didn't say.
When did she come? What do you know about her?
She came just after the lady with the long chain, because I met her in the hall as I came back from ringing Mr. Fullerton's bell. I thought she was going to the Stewarts' apartment because there isn't anyone else at that end of the hall except the Stewarts and Mr. Fullerton. Then when Mr. Fullerton and the lady came out and went down together, this other lady was in the hall again. I held the elevator for her, but she turned her back and I went down.
Did you take her down later?
No, she must have walked down.
Can you describe her? Did you see her face?
Na, she had a veil on.
Lyon inwardly anathematized the feminine expedient of wearing veils.
Can't you remember anything about her?
I didn't see her close, he said apologetically.
Have you told anybody else about Mr. Fullerton's visitor, Johnny?
Mr. Bede was here, asking me all about her the next day.
Did you tell him the same things you have told me?
I didn't tell him about the chain. I didn't think about her looking at her watch until you reminded me.
Oh, well, that isn't important, said Lyon, carelessly. "Did you mention the other lady to Mr. Bede?"
No. Was she a-comin' to see Mr. Fullerton, too?
Not that I know of. What made you notice her, by the way?
She was a stranger. Most people that come here I know.
You've done very well, Johnny. Now I want to see the janitor. What's his name?
Mr. Hunt.
He proceeded to look up Mr. Hunt, and preferred his request that he be allowed to inspect the rooms of the late Mr. Fullerton, but he found that functionary disposed to make the most of the temporary importance which the tragedy had conferred upon him.
Them rooms is locked up. The public ain't admitted. The police has took the key.
But you have a duplicate key, you know.
And what if I have?
Why, you could let me in for half an hour.
What for should I do that? This ain't no public museum, and I ain't no public Information Bureau to answer all the fool questions that people as ain't got nothing else to do can think of asking.
I dare say that people have been imposing on you, said Lyon, with that serious and sympathetic air which served him so well on occasion. "But that's the penalty which you have to pay for being a man of importance. I like to meet a man of your sort. You're not the kind to let every curiosity seeker in. But this is different. You know I am writing this case up for the News and I think I'll have to have your picture for the paper, with a little write-up. No reason why you shouldn't get something out of all this. You let me into those rooms for half an hour, and I'll see that you have a notice that your wife will cut out and frame."
He had his way in the end, of course, and Hunt, grumbling but gratified, took him up by the back stairs, admitted him, and locked him in, with the warning that he would come personally to let him out in half an hour.
Left alone, Lyon looked about him with a great deal of curiosity and interest. Fullerton was a sufficiently important person in himself to give interest to his rooms, apart from the accident that a mystery had settled down upon his death. And these were not the conventional rooms of the average well-regulated and commonplace man. There was a mingling of oriental luxury and slovenliness, of extravagance and threadbare carelessness, that was a curious index to the owner's mind. The first room was evidently a combined study and lounging room, for it contained a revolving book-case filled with law books, a large table with papers and books spread promiscuously upon it, a couch, several luxurious easy chairs, a curious oriental cabinet high upon the wall, a dilapidated rug in which Lyon caught his foot, and a table with all the paraphernalia of a smoker. The feature of the room that especially attracted his attention, however, was the pictures. These were not of the character that one would have expected to find in a lawyer's private study. Instead of the portraits of jurists and law-givers, the walls were adorned with pictures of ballet girls of varying degrees of audacity. Some were so extreme that Lyon was distinctly startled. From the pictures, his eye wandered to the book-case at the head of the couch. No law books here, where he threw himself down to smoke at his ease, but novels, French and English, at least equalling the pictures in audacity. Evidently Fullerton had not had the tastes or tendencies of a Galahad. He could hardly have received his clients in this telltale room. Yet the open law books on the table indicated that he did occasionally do some studying here. Lyon was struck with the title of the first book he saw, and still more so when he found that of the half dozen lying open or with markers in them on the table, all dealt with the same subject,--divorce. The reason seemed clear when he picked up the file of legal papers on the table and found them to be a complete transcript of the Vanderburg divorce case. Evidently, for some reason or other, that matter had been uppermost in his thoughts of late. As he put the papers down, a filmy, crumpled-up handkerchief on the table caught his eye. It called to his mind the handkerchief which Mrs. Broughton had pressed to her lips the evening before to conceal their nervous trembling, and he was not surprised, when he unfolded it, to find the initials "G.B." woven into the delicate embroidery.
Well, what do you make of it?
The amused voice from the bedroom door made Lyon start, for he had supposed himself entirely alone. He spun about and faced a quiet little man, who was regarding him with a rather satiric interest.
Hello! he said. "I didn't know you were there."
You were not supposed to, the other man retorted. "You are not supposed to be here yourself, you know. Are you trying your hand at amateur detective work?"
I'm looking for material for a lively story, said Lyon, with his most ingenuous air. He had at once recognized Bede, a detective connected with the police force. Of course he had known that the police would be working on the case, but the actual presence of this shrewd-eyed, silent detective gave him a feeling akin to panic. Could Bede read his thoughts and tear from him the secret he was most anxious to guard,--Miss Wolcott's connection with the affair? It was absurd to think so, and yet the idea made him absurdly nervous. He thrust the thought down to the bottom of his mind and faced Bede with a blank aspect. "Help me out, can't you? Give me some interesting bits to work up for the public. What have you discovered so far?"
Bede laughed softly. "For the public?" He came over to the table and picked up the handkerchief which Lyon had thrown down. "You were interested in this, I noticed. Have you any idea who G.B. is?"
I am a stranger in Waynscott, said Lyon casually. "Besides, my circle of acquaintances would hardly coincide with Mr. Fullerton's, I fancy."
Oh, Fullerton had more than one circle of acquaintances. He was engaged to be married a few years ago to a young lady belonging to one of the most eminently respectable families of Hemlock Avenue. Ah, you knew that, I see, though you are a stranger in Waynscott.
I think I have heard it mentioned, said Lyon carelessly, though his heart shook to think he had unconsciously betrayed so much. "One hears all sorts of rumors about the man."
For instance--? Bede asked politely.
Oh, nothing that would be news to you. By the way, what theory have you to offer in regard to his coat being on wrong side out?
What do you make of it yourself?
Nothing. I'm entirely at sea.
Bede smiled a little and dropped his guarded air. "Well, he didn't turn it after he was hit, that's evident. Death was practically instantaneous. And the girl didn't turn it,--"
The girl?
The woman you saw running across the street.
Oh!
Bede did not smile at the startled monosyllable. He only took quiet note of it, and went on without a break,
--because a woman wouldn't touch a man who had been struck dead at her feet in the street. She would simply run away at once.
Lyon nodded attentively.
And the man wouldn't have had time to do it after the girl ran away, because you were so near that you would have seen him if he had lingered in the neighborhood. He must have disappeared almost immediately.
Not very gallant of him to run off in an opposite direction and let the girl shift for herself.
Oh, I don't know. The girl had to get out of the way, and alone, as soon as possible. Besides, the man may not have run off in an opposite direction. He may simply have jumped off into that low, vacant lot until the gathering of a crowd gave him a chance to get away without being conspicuous. He was watching Lyon closely, but that young man's surprise was too genuine to be mistaken. "Therefore, to return to the question of the coat," he continued, "it is pretty clear that he must have turned it himself."
But why?
As a disguise. To escape being recognized by a young woman who had seen him in a black coat a very short time before. It is possible that he trusted too much to the disguise and so came too near, and so provoked the quarrel which ended so fatally. Even a mild-tempered man doesn't like to be spied upon when he is, we may assume, making love on his own account.
It seems to me you are assuming that Lawrence killed him, and then building up a scene to fit that theory, said Lyon hotly.
What makes you think I am assuming it was Lawrence?--Because I suggested he was making love on his own account?
Lyon felt that he had been trapped. "Well, aren't you assuming it to be Lawrence?" he asked bluntly.
But Bede was never blunt.
At any rate, we must assume that it was a man who struck the blow.
Why must we?
A woman doesn't kill in the open, even where she hates. She has the cat nature. She strikes from ambush, unless attacked. And she doesn't carry a man's cane, even for purposes of defense, much less for purposes of offense.
There's one point about that cane business that I wonder whether you noticed, said Lyon, thoughtfully. "Lawrence swore that he had it in the State Law Library a few days ago, because he remembered poking a book down from a high shelf with it,--which is as characteristic of Lawrence as it must have been bad for the book. But he couldn't swear that he took it away with him, because he got into a dispute with Fullerton and he doesn't remember what he did. Now, isn't it possible, and even probable, that being excited by that discussion he walked off without his cane, and that Fullerton, seeing he had forgotten it, picked it up and carried it off, meaning to return it, and then forgot about it, and then, either intentionally or absent-mindedly, carried it with him that fatal Monday night on his walk? That would explain how Lawrence's cane got to be there, without involving Lawrence."
Bede had listened with the closest attention. "That is a very ingenious theory," he said thoughtfully. He walked back and forth across the room a couple of times, revolving it in his mind. "It is certainly a plausible explanation. Fullerton's antagonist may have wrested the cane from his own hand and struck him with it, as you very cleverly suggest. But I don't see that it alters the essential elements of the case."
Not if it removes Lawrence's connection with the cane?
The cane is not a vital point. As you have ingeniously demonstrated, it would be possible to explain it away. The essential point is somebody's antagonism to Fullerton. A casual stranger does not walk up and hit him a blow of that nature, either with his own cane or with one snatched from the hand of his victim.
A man of Fullerton's character would be sure to have enemies, said Lyon, argumentatively.
But not all of his enemies would be roused to murderous fury to see him in company with a particular young lady.
In spite of himself, Lyon started. "Then you think you have identified the young lady?" he asked.
Bede was watching him closely, with a hint of a lurking smile.
You don't ask with whom we have identified her? Quite right. Of course I couldn't tell a representative of the press. But I don't mind saying that we have theories as to her identity.
Lyon's heart sank. "Based on what facts?" he asked, doggedly.
Oh, all that will come out in due time. I'll ruin my professional reputation if I let you lead me on to gossip any more. His serious manner contradicted the hint of irony in his eyes, but Lyon guessed that the eyes came nearer to telling the truth. "By the way, Mr. Lyon, how did you get into these rooms?"
Oh, I'm in the habit of getting in where I want to go.
Good for you. But I'll have to instruct Hunt as to his duties. You won't get in so easily the next time.
And Lyon fully admitted the truth of that statement the next time that he did get into those rooms.
Lyon was distinctly nervous when he got away from Bede and had time to reflect on their conversation. Two things were evident,--that Bede knew about Fullerton's former relation with Miss Wolcott and that he suspected Lyon of knowing more of the situation than the miscellaneous public. Was it possible that he was trying to connect Miss Wolcott with the woman who had called upon Fullerton that evening and had gone out with him? Lyon was satisfied in his own mind that the woman was Mrs. Broughton, but Bede was certainly justified in entertaining the other hypothesis, since he knew nothing about Mrs. Broughton. Would he give his hypothesis to the public? That was exactly what Lawrence had been so anxious to prevent that he had refused to clear himself of the charge of murder,--if, as Lyon believed, he was really not implicated. Was his sacrifice to be for nothing? Lyon saw, at any rate, that he himself must be wary in his movements, since it was evident that Bede was thoroughly alive to as much of the situation as he knew.
He had received a note from Howell, Lawrence's lawyer, asking him to call at his office, and he turned in that direction now. His way, however, took him past the jail, and he took the opportunity to carry out the scriptural injunction to visit those in prison. Poor Lawrence must need a little cheering up.
But poor Lawrence greeted him with a gayety that did not suggest the need of sympathy. Indeed, his eyes were dancing with triumph.
Do you see my flowers, old man? he cried jubilantly.
A huge bunch of long-stemmed roses, still in the florist's box, was filling the cell with color and fragrance.
Who sent them? asked Lyon suspiciously.
Devil a card or a scrap of writing with them.
Oh, then it's merely because you have become a celebrity, said Lyon, indifferently. "Silly women are always sending flowers to the principals in any murder case."
Bad luck to you, you're jealous, cried Lawrence. "If you are going to slander my roses after that fashion, you can go,--go and get me a dictionary of the flower language. I want to find out what American Beauties mean,--when they come without a card."
I'd like to know myself, said Lyon, taking note of the florist's name on the box.
Lawrence looked at him with mischievous eyes, that still were dancing with happiness. "Oh, but you are slow of imagination, Lyon," he said, softly.
Lyon concluded that he was not needed at that moment as a cheerer of those in prison, so he got away, and hunted up Howell's office in a tall office building down town. He was taken into the lawyer's private office, where he found Howell with his hands behind his back, staring moodily through the window into a dingy court, instead of deep in his books as a lawyer is supposed to be. There was exasperation and protest in every line of his figure. He turned to nod to Lyon without relaxing his gloom.
I am glad to see you, Mr. Lyon. Sit down. I asked you to call in connection with this case of Lawrence's.
Yes.
Have you any influence with him?
I doubt it, said Lyon, with a smile. "I don't think that he allows many men to exert an influence upon him."
At any rate, you are a friend of his?
Most certainly,--so far as I am concerned. I am rather too new a friend to feel that I have much right to claim the title.
Howell regarded him frowningly though with what was evidently intended for good-will.
I think you will understand me, Mr. Lyon, when I say that a more pig-headed, exasperating, obstinate client never fell to my lot. He doesn't remember. He can't say. What I need in preparing my defense is not a law library so much as a kit of burglar's tools. I have got to break into his mind somehow. He is hiding something. Do you know what it is?
Lyon reflected that Bede had not asked that question. Bede had known! He must still keep faith with Lawrence, who had trusted him; but was it not possible to help Lawrence against his will through this lawyer? He picked his way carefully.
I don't really know very much, Mr. Howell. I guess at some things, and I shall be glad to lay my little knowledge before you. But first, tell me, is Lawrence's situation really dangerous?
Yes, said Howell tersely. "You see, an alibi is out of the question. He has admitted that he was in the neighborhood. Donohue's testimony shows that he might easily have been on the very spot. Certainly he was not far from it. Yet he offers no explanation as to what he was doing there. That Fullerton could have been struck down--there must have been some sort of an altercation--and Lawrence neither see nor hear anything, is certainly curious. That his cane should have been found on the spot is certainly unfortunate. That he should have publicly slapped Fullerton's face that morning is the devil's own luck. Frankly, Mr. Lyon, unless I can in some way discover the actual facts of that night's proceedings, the prospects for clearing Lawrence are not cheerful. Of course, the facts may not help him,--but if that is the case it is even more important that I should know them. I can't work in the dark. Now, do you know, yourself, what Lawrence was doing that night?"
No.
You didn't see him?
Not until the crowd had gathered.
Howell looked disappointed. "I hoped that possibly you might be able to give me the facts that he is withholding."
Isn't it possible that he is withholding nothing,--that there is nothing to withhold?
It is possible, but if that is the situation, it is a malicious conspiracy on the part of fate to trap an innocent man. It will be difficult to make a jury believe he is as ignorant as he wants us to think. No, as far as I can see into the situation, our only hope is that there is a woman in the case and that we can work the jury for emotional sympathy. He looked keenly at Lyon.
You may think it a wild notion, said Lyon, "but I have an idea that possibly there is a woman in the case, though Lawrence doesn't know anything about her. I was in Fullerton's rooms at the Wellington this morning,--"
How did you get in?
Blarneyed the janitor. On the table I found a handkerchief that is the mate of one I have seen in the hand of Mrs. Woods Broughton.
Well?
On the table was a transcript of the divorce proceedings in the case of Grace Vanderburg v. William H. Vanderburg. You know, of course, that Grace Vanderburg is now Mrs. Woods Broughton.
Howell nodded.
There were a number of books on divorce on the table, as though he had just been looking up the subject,--or discussing it with a client. You know Fullerton was Mrs. Vanderburg's attorney.
You are leading up to something.
This. The elevator boy gave me a more particular description of the woman who left the Wellington with Fullerton that evening than Donohue was able to give. I feel sure that woman was Mrs. Broughton.
Mrs. Broughton is not in Waynscott.
Yes. She is staying with Miss Elliott on Locust Avenue.
But the papers have not mentioned it. Are you sure?
She is very quiet,--under the care of Dr. Barry, and suffering from a nervous shock which dates from Monday night.
Howell's foot tapped nervously upon the floor. "But this is amazing, if not incredible. How do you come to know it,--or think you know it?"
I have seen and talked with Mrs. Broughton.
You!
Yes. She sent for me to ask for information about Lawrence. She said she had been distressed by the news of the murder, and as Lawrence was an old friend she was anxious to learn what danger he stood in,--if I could tell her anything more than the reports in the papers. That's about all.
All! exclaimed Howell, excitedly. "What more would you want, in the name of wonder? The woman who was in Fullerton's company--"
That's merely my guess, you remember. But the elevator boy described a chain she wore, and her manner of speaking very accurately.
When did you see her?
Last night.
You must take me to her immediately. Here you have wasted hours--
Lyon shook his head. "Dr. Barry has forbidden her seeing anyone. He fears serious nervous disturbance,--mental derangement, in fact. She has evidently had a severe nervous shock."
Does Dr. Barry know what you have told me?
No.
Does anyone know?
No.
Not even Lawrence?
No. I didn't know just what effect it might have upon--his policy of silence. In fact, I didn't know how to proceed farther, until I had consulted you.
Howell smiled grimly. "I am glad you allowed me some share in handling the matter. From the way you have been going on, I didn't know but what you were going to take the case out of my hands entirely. Now, how soon can I see Mrs. Broughton?"
I don't know, but not immediately. I saw Dr. Barry this morning. He thinks her condition serious. I told him I wanted to see her as soon as possible, but he warned me not to attempt it until he gave me leave. And he described the scene he had gone through the evening before, when Mrs. Broughton went into hysterics.
Howell looked serious. "I see. Of course I can't force myself upon a woman in that condition. And until I know exactly what her testimony is going to be, I don't want to have her appear in the case at all. It is possible, of course, that after I have talked with her my chief care will be to have her out of the way of the prosecution. I can't tell what I shall do until I have seen her. If only Bede does not stumble upon this,--"
I came upon Bede in Fullerton's rooms this morning. I don't think he has thought of identifying the woman with Mrs. Broughton.
Although you have?
Well, I had the advantage of knowing that Mrs. Broughton was in town. I don't think Bede does.
How did you find it out?
By a sort of accident. I was at Miss Elliott's School, making some inquiries about the school, and Miss Elliott let it out. Lyon breathed a little more freely when that dangerous question was passed.
Howell tapped his underlip thoughtfully with his long forefinger.
You have given me a most important suggestion, Mr. Lyon. Of course it may lead up to nothing. Even if Mrs. Broughton was the woman whom Donohue saw with Fullerton, it doesn't follow that she was still with him when the tragedy occurred. Indeed, it is more than unlikely, because if she knew anything about the affair, a woman of her standing and character would have spoken out at once. She would have nothing to fear.
Lyon said absolutely nothing, but Howell, watching him, caught some unspoken thought and turned upon him with swift amaze.
You don't mean--
No, no, no, said Lyon. "I am sure not."
But Howell looked thoughtful. "He was her attorney in that divorce suit, and you say that the table was covered with books on divorce, and she had been there to consult him, as is evidenced by her handkerchief. If there was anything irregular about that divorce and he knew about it, and threatened to use that knowledge-- It is not impossible to believe that Fullerton might resort to blackmail on occasion. He was very hard up and Mrs. Broughton is a very wealthy woman,--so long as her marriage is not impugned. And if we suppose for a moment that that was the situation, it is not difficult to go a step further and imagine that his death would be a great relief to her,--so great that it might have taken the form of a swift temptation. The blow may have been a sudden, desperate impulse, and it would not have been beyond the strength of a woman, even a slight woman. But the means,--the cane?"
It has occurred to me as a bare possibility that Fullerton may have been carrying the cane himself, and that his assailant may have wrested it from him. You remember Lawrence's testimony that he had the cane in the library a few days before, and that, owing to an excited discussion with Fullerton, he did not remember whether he took it away with him or whether he left it there. Suppose he left it there, and Fullerton picked it up, it might have happened that he had it with him on that evening.
Howell started to his feet and paced the room in suppressed excitement.
It may be utterly fantastic and incredible, he said finally, pausing before Lyon and looking at him with abstracted eyes, "but it is the first possible gleam of an outlet that I have seen in any direction. I must follow it up. I must see Mrs. Broughton just as soon as possible. I am walking on a mine until I know what she has to say for herself. It may all amount to nothing. It may be of the most vital importance. Now how can I be sure of knowing the earliest moment that I can risk demanding an interview without danger to her health?"
I know Dr. Barry.
But you can't tell Dr. Barry why you want to know. It is important that not the slightest hint of this should reach the other side. Of course Bede may work it out for himself. He is not a fool. Quite the contrary. We have to take our chances on that. But we don't want to help him. And if by chance Mrs. Broughton should have nothing to confess except that she saw Lawrence assault Fullerton, we don't want to help Bede to that bit of testimony. It is quite on the cards that that is what she will have to tell me, too. Have you considered that?
I don't think she will, said Lyon slowly.
Do you happen to have any reason for that assurance? Your theories are interesting, young man. If you have any more of them in reserve, I'd like to hear them.
But Lyon shook his head. "My theory is based on the assumption that Lawrence really knows no more about the affair than he has told you."
I hope it may prove so, said Howell, somewhat dubiously. "In the meantime, bear in mind that I must have a chance to see Mrs. Broughton quietly at the earliest possible moment. Good Lord, man, the Grand Jury meets in ten days from now. Now, have you any suggestions as to how that interview can be arranged without notice to the public and without any chance of a slip-up?"
I have just secured a letter of introduction to one of the pupils in Miss Elliott's School,--Miss Kittie Tayntor, said Lyon. "I thought that it might prove useful in keeping in close touch with the situation."
Howell's gray eyes twinkled appreciatively. "It strikes me that you are wasted as a mere newspaper man. You have talents. Go ahead and improve your acquaintance with Miss Kittie. That is safer than to depend upon Dr. Barry, because he might be biassed. He might think it advisable to get Mrs. Broughton away quietly, without letting you know about her movements. Of course a woman of her prominence can't be lost, but on the other hand, if she wanted to get out of reach, she could make it difficult for us to find her. It is much better that we keep watch on her movements without letting her suspect that fact."
I'll do my best, said Lyon.
And that is a good deal, said Howell, with a sincerity that made Lyon flush with pleasure.
When Lyon left Howell's office, he went around to the florist whose name he had noted on the box of roses in Lawrence's room. After selecting a boutonnière and admiring the seasonable display of flowers, he asked casually,
By the way. Maxwell, who sent those roses to Lawrence,--Arthur Lawrence, you know?
I'd like to know myself, said the florist, waking up to sudden interest. "I don't have such an order as that every day."
Why, what was there unusual about it?
Well, hundred dollar bills are unusual in my business, and it isn't often that I get a letter with a hundred dollars in it and no name signed to it, with orders to send flowers till the money is used up and more will be coming.
That does sound uncommon. I'd like to see that letter, if you have it around.
Oh, yes, I kept it as a curiosity. He opened a drawer in his desk and threw a letter on the counter before Lyon. Lyon's first glance at it showed him plainly enough that the brief note was written in the same large, angular handwriting that had marked the note which he had himself received from Mrs. Woods Broughton. As he picked it up to examine it more closely, an unfortunate accident occurred. A man who had entered the shop shortly after Lyon and who had possibly overheard their conversation, had come up close to Lyon's elbow, and now leaned forward suddenly as though to look at the note over his shoulder. His hasty movement upset a vase of flowers on the counter. The vase was broken, the flowers scattered over the floor, and the water poured over Lyon's cuff and hand, as well as over the note which he had just picked up. The man was profuse in his apologies, and supplemented Lyon's handkerchief by his own to remove the traces of the deluge. Somehow in the momentary confusion the note itself was lost sight of, but Lyon had seen enough to satisfy him that this munificent order for flowers was simply another indication of Mrs. Broughton's interest in Lawrence and his situation.
Lawrence had wondered what the roses might mean in the language of flowers. Lyon could not help wondering whether they spelled "Remorse."
The first thing to do was to see Kittie Tayntor. Lyon had received from his kind-hearted friend in Columbus a glowing endorsement, which he had mailed to Miss Elliott, with a formal request that he might be permitted to call upon Miss Tayntor. In reply he had received a polite note, authorizing him to present himself the following Wednesday. This was encouraging, but it hardly prepared him for the more than encouraging reception which awaited him when he had duly sent up his card. A tall girl, with a fluff of light hair and eyes so dazzling that he really could not tell what color they were, came down to meet him with a pretty impetuosity.
Oh, Cousin Percy! I'm so glad to see you! It took you the longest time to find out I was here, didn't it? I made up my mind I would never send you word to the end of time! I just thought I'd have a good joke on you when you did come around at last.
I--I beg your pardon,-- stammered Lyon.
Oh, I don't mind I We'll make up for lost time. I have so many things to tell you about home. When were you there last? I know you don't write often,--men never do, Aunt Meg says,--so I don't suppose you know that Cousin Jennie is engaged? To Dr. Whitman. Did you know him? No, I think you were in the east when he was there. We all like him very much.
I'm afraid you are mista-- Lyon tried to put in, but she swept on, with the charming hurry of a breathless little brook.
And I want to know all about your work. It must be just awfully interesting to write for the papers. I don't see how you can think of things to say! I told Miss Elliott that maybe you would help me with my compositions.
I should be delighted, but I must--
She said that since you were my cousin, Kittie ran on, with a subtle emphasis, and a momentary widening of her wide eyes, "that she would be very glad to have me submit my compositions to you and get your suggestions. It is very fortunate that you are my cousin. You know if you were not, you wouldn't have been allowed to call on me at all. That's one of the rules of the school."
Oh! said Lyon, with sudden illumination. "I didn't know that. I'm afraid I never mentioned our relationship to Miss Elliott. I did not know that it was necessary."
Oh, I made it all straight. I explained it to her, Kittie said, clapping her small hands inaudibly, and fairly beaming her joyous thanks upon him.
Would the rules of the school permit you to go out for a walk with me? If I tread on dangerous ground without knowing it, you will have to put me straight. It is a glorious day, and a brisk walk would do you a lot of good.
I don't know, Kittie murmured. "Some time, maybe,--"
No time like to-day, said Lyon, firmly. With his best air he approached the lady who, in the far end of the reception room, had been absorbed in a volume of British Poets. "Would there be any objection to my taking my cousin out for a walk?"
I think not, the lady said, somewhat hesitatingly.
Then run up and put on your hat, Kittie, said Lyon, coolly. "I'll guarantee to have her back at any time you set."
I don't quite know what Miss Elliott would say, hesitated the timid lady, "but I think you'd better be back in half an hour."
Kittie threw her arms around her neck. "You're just an angel. Miss Rose!" And she flew up to her room, while Lyon devoted himself to Miss Rose so successfully that she looked upon young men as a class more hopefully from that hour.
Now, Cousin Kittie, said Lyon, as soon as they were outside.
You needn't keep that up, she interrupted.
Yes, I do, he said, firmly. "I mustn't get out of practice for a minute, or I might slip up some time. Now talk fast and tell me all the things that I really have to know."
She shot a shy glance at him under her lashes. "It was awfully nice of you to catch on so quickly."
It was interesting, but difficult. But you are a courageous girl! Suppose I hadn't caught on?
I know! Wouldn't it have been awful? Or suppose you hadn't been--nice, you know! But I had to take some chances. You don't know how dreadful it is to stay shut up inside of walls like that, and never to go outside unless we go with one of the teachers, and never to see any callers unless they are relatives. And I haven't any relatives at all except Aunt Meg and Uncle Joe and Cousin Jennie at Columbus, so I never had the excitement of going downstairs to see some one in the reception room, while the girls hung over the banisters to see what he looked like when he went away. She stole a gratified glance at Lyon's straight figure and good clothes. "When Miss Elliott came to tell me about your letter, I was just wild to think that I should have to miss this splendid chance, just because you hadn't said you were a relative, so--so--"
I see.
Do you think it was very awful?
If it had been anyone else but me, it would have been awful, but since it was I, and since you are never going to do it again for anyone else,--
Oh, never, never!
I think I was in great luck, said Lyon simply. And certainly the words were well within the limit of his feelings on the subject. He had barely hoped to establish some sort of an entrée to the school. That the Miss Kittie whose name he had selected at random from the catalogue should be so pretty, so funnily absurd, so unusually entertaining, was pure gratuity on the part of Fate. And what a daringly reckless child it was! Modest as Lyon was, he couldn't help recognizing that it was luck for Kittie as well as for himself that it was he and not some one else who had been admitted so confidently to this fascinating intimacy. A dawning sense of responsibility for this irresponsible new cousin made him defer the real object of his inquiry to extend the field of his acquaintance with Kittie herself.
How long have you been at school here. Kittie?
I came last September. Why?
Oh, I think I ought to know. Do you like it?
Oh, it's rather good fun, she said, cheerfully. "We have lots of spreads in our rooms and Miss Elliott has rules about everything, and that keeps us busy. Rules always make me want to go right to work to break them, just to see if I can."
And can you? he asked, with interest.
She looked demure. "Oh, maybe there might be some that I don't know about yet that I couldn't break."
What are some of the rules of the school? That was a point on which he particularly wished to post himself.
Oh, everything. Miss Elliott won't ever let me go out walking with you like this again. Miss Rose is a new teacher. She has just come, and she didn't know.
But I may come and see you?
Only on Wednesdays. But that will be quite exciting. There are very few girls who have some one come to see them every Wednesday. But maybe some Wednesdays you will be busy? she added politely. "Of course, if you are busy, I shouldn't expect you to come. Some of the girls sometimes have flowers sent to them."
I'm glad that's allowed, said Lyon, with an inward smile. He was trying mentally to figure out how he was going to keep in touch with Mrs. Broughton's condition if he was only allowed to visit the school once a week. That would not suit him at all. There was now only a week or eight days before the meeting of the Grand Jury, and if Mrs. Broughton's information was going to do any good at all, they must have it very soon. He must try to draw Kittie into his scheme at once, while he had this opportunity.
Kittie, I want you to help me out about something. There is a lady visiting Miss Elliott--
Oh, do you know her?
I know who she is. And I have met her once.
Isn't she perfectly beautiful? I should rather be like her than anyone else in the world.
Lyon smiled inscrutably, but his tongue was discreet if his eyes were not always. But instead of explaining to Kittie that Mrs. Broughton, beautiful as she was, could never hope to be as delightful as Miss Tayntor, he held himself strictly to the matter in hand.
Mrs. Broughton is very ill, and Dr. Barry says that I must not disturb her by talking business. Now, it is very urgent that I should have a chance to talk business with her as soon as she is able to stand it,--at the very earliest moment possible. I was wondering if I could find out through you how she is getting on. I am afraid to trust Dr. Barry, you see. He will want to keep me off, and it may be too late to do any good by the time he is willing. At the same time I don't want to force myself upon her before she really is strong enough to stand it. You understand?
Oh, yes, indeed. I'll explain it all to her, and then she can say herself when she wants you to come.
Are you allowed to go in to see her? asked Lyon in surprise.
Every evening. She likes to have me rub her head and put her to sleep.
Oh, that's very fortunate. I thought no one was allowed to go in at all.
No one else is. No one even goes into those halls, and we mustn't laugh or talk so that she can hear it. But the first evening when we came back after vacation, I naturally wanted to know who it was in those rooms and why she was shut up with a trained nurse and why we had to keep so specially quiet for her, so I just waited around till the nurse went down to get her supper and then I slipped in. The door wasn't locked, so it was perfectly easy. And there I found the most perfectly beautiful woman I ever saw outside of a book. You can't think how fascinated I was. I knew it was good for my education to see a lot of her, because she had such lovely manners, and I was wild to think they would come and order me out and make a rule that I must never go In again, so I just made myself as interesting to her as I possibly could. I had to hurry a lot because there wasn't much time. The nurse was liable to come back any moment.
How interesting can you make yourself when you really give your mind to it? asked Lyon, with lively curiosity.
Oh,--interesting enough. It worked all right, too, because when the nurse came back, Mrs. Broughton just insisted that I should stay a little longer. She said it did her good, and she would be nervous if they didn't let me stay, and that she liked to have me there, and she got so excited that they got scared, I guess, because the nurse finally said, 'W-e-11,--' like that, you know, and so I stayed, and I was good for her, too, so ever since that they let me go in for an hour in the evening, while the nurse is having her supper.
Good. Nothing could be better. Then you can let me know the first minute that she is strong enough for me to come and see her, and particularly whether she is planning to go away. Would you be sure to know that?
Oh, yes. I'd see. I always see things.
And you could send me a note?
Kittie looked doubtful. "Miss Elliott reads all our letters, you know."
No, I didn't know.
That wouldn't matter, because I could write it so that she wouldn't understand, although it would be perfectly plain to you, but I am not sure she would let me write to you at all. You see, you are a rather new cousin, and if you are going to come to see me every week,--
She would think that was enough. I see. Well then, what can we do?
But Kittie had a plan already evolved. "I know. My room is the corner one at the back of the house,--you can see it from this corner of the street. There, do you see the two windows with the curtains clear up? Well, so long as I leave the curtain in the right-hand window up the way it is now, it means that she is too ill to be disturbed, but if I pull it down she is getting better, and the more I pull it down, the better and stronger she is until when I pull it way down she is quite well. The other window, the one in the corner, will tell about her going away. If I see signs of her getting ready to go, I'll pull it part way down, and if it goes as low as the middle sash it means you must hurry if you want to see her, and when I pull it quite down, she has gone!"
Kittie, you are a genius!
And you don't mind that it is breaking rules,--only they aren't made into rules, because nobody thought that they would be needed? I thought just a little that you didn't quite like it a while ago!
Lyon laughed. "You are quite right, and I mustn't be superior any more. But it is very important that I should have a chance to see Mrs. Broughton,--important to other people than myself."
She gave him a demure, sidelong glance, and then dropped her eyes. "Is it about Mr. Lawrence?" she asked, ingenuously.
You amazing young lady! What do you know about Mr. Lawrence?
Mrs. Broughton told me about him.
Did she? he asked alertly. "What did she tell you?"
Oh, she has talked about him a great deal. He was an old friend of hers before she was married, and, just think, she had seen him only the day before all this happened.
Did she tell you where she saw him, or what they talked about?
No. But she is very grateful to him for something he did for her. She says he is like a knight of old. I think if he could know she said that, he would feel proud, don't you?
Lyon frowned thoughtfully. Mrs. Broughton's sudden sense of gratitude toward Lawrence seemed uncalled for. "What else did she say to you?"
Kittie reflected. "She said that they would never, never hang Mr. Lawrence, because nobody saw him kill Mr. Fullerton, and they couldn't hang him unless somebody swore they saw him. Is that the law?"
I don't know much about the law, myself.
And she says that it isn't so bad for him to be locked up for a little while, when they will have to let him go in the end, as it would be for some one to be hanged. I think that is true, too, don't you?
In spite of the need he felt to explore her mind, the words on her lips shocked him.
Mrs. Broughton shouldn't talk to you about such things, he said impatiently.
She lifted astonished eyes to his.
But then I should never have known anything about it! Miss Elliott doesn't allow us to read the papers ever, and I want to know Life.
Time enough, laughed Lyon.
Oh, I'm not a child. I can understand. It has been a great thing for me to know Mrs. Broughton.
She is a beautiful woman, Lyon conceded, somewhat coldly. Secretly he thought Kittie might have been as well off without that intimacy. But before he left the subject there was one point on which he wanted to get light, if possible, without betraying the point of his interest,--Mrs. Broughton's possible acquaintance with the loose panel in the protecting wall of the school yard.
Do you know if Mrs. Broughton has been here before? he asked.
Oh, yes. She always stops here when she comes to Waynscott. She was one of Miss Elliott's first pupils.
Then she knows the house and yard, pretty well?
Oh, of course.
By the way, I notice that your back yard is fenced in. There is no way of getting in except by the front door, of course.
Kittie looked at him with surprise.
When you say 'of course' in that careless way, it makes me think you mean just the opposite, she said, suspiciously.
He had to laugh at her penetration. "Then is there any other way in?" he asked.
She hesitated, and then said with an exaggerated imitation of his own "careless" manner,
Oh, of course not!
Does Mrs. Broughton know about it, do you think?
She pursed up her lips and nodded her head violently.
She belongs to the Immortal Few Society. It has always been one of the things the Immortal Few learned at initiation.
Has she spoken of it to you?
No.
No, she wouldn't be apt to, Lyon reflected. Then somewhat violently he changed the subject. "Come, we won't talk about her any more. Tell me about our family, so that I won't make mistakes."
She spent the rest of the time coaching him about his newly acquired relatives, and they parted at Miss Elliot's door with mutual satisfaction.
There is no game so trying to the nerves as a waiting game. Lyon was cool by temperament and self-controlled from experience, but he found it necessary to call on both his native and acquired composure to enable him to face the situation without wanting to do something, anything, to force Fate's hand. To wait, just to sit still and wait for Mrs. Broughton to recover, while all the time Lawrence was drawing nearer and nearer to the day that would blast his career even if he escaped with his life,--it was nerve-racking. And all the time Bede was working, like a mole in the dark, undermining the wall of silence which Lawrence had thrown up. Heaven knew what he might feel bound to discover for the credit of his profession! It might prove, of course, that Mrs. Broughton had nothing bearing upon the subject to tell, but until he knew that to be the case he would hold the hope that somehow, in some way, she might clear matters up. Yes, he must wait.
And then, as he was dropping off to sleep, he woke himself up to murmur quite irrelevantly,
Anyhow, I'm glad she didn't say that she would be a sister to me!