The Clue (14 page)

“I suppose you are right,” said Kitty slowly; “a man's mind is said to be more logical. A woman depends more on her intuition. Now, my intuition tells me that Cicely Dupuy can
not
be the guilty one.”

“At risk of tiresome repetition,” returned Fessenden, “I must say again that that is no more convincing than
my
‘intuition' that Carleton can
not
be the guilty one.”

Kitty's smile showed her quick appreciation of this point, and Rob went on:

“Though suspicion, so far, is cast in no other direction, it is only fair to consider all the others in the house. This will, of course, be done in due time. I approve of Mr. Benson, and I think, though his manners are pompous and at times egotistical, he has a good mind and a quick intelligence. He will do his part, I am sure, and then, if necessary, others will be brought into the case. But, as Carleton's friend, I shall devote all my energies to clearing him from what I know is an unjust suspicion.”

And then Rob Fessenden went away. Mrs. Markham asked him to remain to dinner, but he declined, preferring to go home with Carleton. He said he would return next morning, and said too that he meant to stay in Mapleton as long as he could be of any service to any of his friends.

This decision was, of course, the result of his great friendship for Carleton, and his general interest in the Van Norman case, but it was also partly brought about by the bewitching personality of Kitty French and the impression she had made on his not usually susceptible heart.

And being master of his own time, Fessenden resolved to stay for a few days and observe developments along several lines.

XIV

THE CARLETON HOUSEHOLD

MRS. CARLETON'S DINNER TABLE that evening presented a very different atmosphere from the night before.

The hostess herself was present only by a strong effort of will power. Mrs. Carleton had been greatly overcome by the shock of the dreadful news, and, aside from the sadness and horror of the tragedy, she was exceedingly disappointed at what seemed to her the ruin of her son's future.

The Carletons were an old and aristocratic family, though by no means possessed of great fortune.

The alliance, therefore, with the wealth of the Van Norman estate, and the power of the Van Norman name, seemed to Mrs. Carleton the crowning glory of her son's career, and she had been devoutly thankful when the wedding-day was set.

Though stubbornly unwilling to believe it, she had of late been forced to notice the growing attachment between Schuyler and her own companion, Miss Burt, and had it not been for the surety of the approaching wedding, she would have dismissed the girl. But so certain was she that her son's ambitions, like her own, were centered on the Van Norman name, she could not believe that Schuyler would let himself become greatly interested in Dorothy Burt.

But she did not allow for that mischievous Imp of Romance who plays havoc with hearts without saying “by your leave.”

And partly because of her own dainty charm, partly because of her contrast to Madeleine's magnificence, Dorothy Burt crept into Schuyler Carleton's affections before either of them realized it, and when they did discover the surprising fact, it did not seem to dismay them as it should have done.

But it troubled them; for Schuyler well knew that honor, expediency, and good judgment all held him bound to Miss Van Norman, and Dorothy Burt knew it equally well.

And, whether or not with an ulterior motive, she had made no claim on him from the first. She had admitted her love for him, but in the same breath had avowed her appreciation of its hopelessness. Even if he hinted at a possible transfer of his allegiance, she had hushed him at once, saying it was impossible for him to do otherwise than to be true to his troth, and that he must forget her, as she should—try to—forget him.

This nobility on her part only made Carleton love her more, and though continuing to admire his beautiful fiancée, his real affection was all for little Dorothy.

She came to dinner that night, soft and lovely in a simple white frock, her pathetic eyes wide open in grief and sorrow, her rosebud mouth drooping and tremulous at the corners.

Fessenden watched her. Without appearing to do so, he noted every expression that flitted across her baby face.

And he was greatly disturbed.

The night before he had paid slight attention to her. To be sure, Miss Van Norman had spoken her name in the afternoon, but it had meant little to him, and, thinking of her merely as Mrs. Carleton's companion, or secretary, he wasn't sure which, he had been conventionally polite and no more. But to-night she was a factor in the case, and must be reckoned with.

As Fessendes watched her, he saw, with a growing conviction, as sure as it was awful, that she was relieved at Miss Van Norman's death.

Gentle, tender little girl as she seemed, it was nevertheless true that the removal of the obstacle between Carleton and herself gave her only joy. She tried to hide this. She cleverly simulated grief, horror, surprise, interest,—all the emotions called forth by the conversation, which unavoidably pursued only one course. In fact, Miss Burt took her cue every time from Mrs. Carleton, and expressed opinions that invariably coincided with hers.

It began to dawn upon Fessenden that the girl was unusually clever, the more so, he thought, that she was consciously concealing her cleverness by a cloak of demure innocence, and careful un-ostentation. Never did she put herself forward; never did she show undue interest in Schuyler, personally.

Fessenden reasoned that the game being now in her own hands, she could afford to stand back and await developments.

Then came the next thought: how came the game so fortuitously into her own hands? Was it, even indirectly, due to her own instigation?

“Pshaw!” he thought to himself. “I'm growing absurdly suspicious. I won't believe wrong of that girl until I have some scrap of a hint to base it on.”

And yet he knew in his own heart if Dorothy Burt had wanted to connive in the slightest degree in the removal of her rival, she was quite capable of doing so, notwithstanding her very evident effect of pretty helplessness.

“When an excessively clever young woman assumes an utterly inefficient air,” he thought, “it must be for some undeclared purpose;” and he felt an absurd thrill of satisfaction that though Kitty French was undeniably clever, she put on no
ingénue
arts to hide it.

Then Kitty's phrase of “a clinging rosebud” came to his mind, and he realized its exceeding aptness to describe Dorothy Burt. Her appealing eyes and wistful, curved mouth were enough to lure a man who loved her to almost any deed of daring.

“Even murder?” flashed into his brain, and he recoiled at the thought. Old Schuyler might have been made to forget his fealty; he might have been unable to steel his heart against those subtle charms; he might have thrown to the winds his honor and his faith; but surely, never,
never
,
could he have committed that dreadful deed, even for love of this angel-faced siren.

“Could she?”

The words fairly burned into Fessenden's brain. The sudden thought set his mind whirling.
Could
she? Why, no, of course not! Absurd! Yes, but
could
she? What? That child? That baby-girl? Those tiny, rose-leaf hands! Yes, but
could
she?

“No!” said Fessenden angrily, and then realized that he had spoken aloud, and his hearers were looking at him with indulgent curiosity.

“Forgive me,” he said, smiling as he looked at Mrs. Carleton. “My fancy took a short but distant flight, and I had to speak to it sternly by way of reproof.”

“I didn't know a lawyer could be fanciful,” said Mrs. Carleton. “I thought that privilege was reserved for poets.”

“Thank you for a pretty compliment to our profession,” said Rob. “We lawyers are too often accused of giving rein to our fancy, when we should be strapped to the saddle of slow but sure Truth.”

“But can you arrive anywhere on such a prosaic steed?” asked Miss Burt, smiling at his words.

“Yes,” said Rob; “we can arrive at facts.”

What prompted him to speak so curtly, he didn't know; but his speech did not at all please Miss Burt. Her color flew to her cheeks, though she said nothing, and then, as Mrs. Carleton rose from the table, the two ladies smiled and withdrew, leaving Rob alone with his host.

“It's all right, old boy, of course,” said Carleton, “but did you have any reason for flouting poor little Dorothy like that?”

“No, I didn't,” said Fessenden honestly and apologetically. “I spoke without thinking, and I'm sorry for it.”

“All right—it's nothing. Now, Rob, old fellow, you can't deceive me. I saw a curious expression in your eyes as you looked at Miss Burt tonight, and—well, there is no need of words between us, so I'll only tell you you're all wrong there. You look for hidden meanings and veiled allusions in everything that girl says, and there aren't any. She's as frank and open-natured as she can be, and—forgive me—but I want you to let her alone.”

Fessenden was astounded. First, at Carleton's insight in discovering his thoughts, and second, at Carleton's mistaken judgment of Miss Burt's nature.

But he only said, “All right, Schuyler; what you say, goes. Would you rather not talk at all about the Van Norman affair?” Fessenden spoke thus casually, for he felt sure it would make it easier for Carleton than if he betrayed a deeper interest.

“Oh, I don't care. You know, of course, how deeply it affects me and my whole life. I know your sympathy and good-fellowship. There's not much more to say, is there?”

“Why, yes, Carleton; there is. As your friend, and also in the interests of justice, I am more than anxious to discover the villain who did the horrid deed, and though the inquest people are doing all they can, I want to add my efforts to theirs, in hope of helping them,—and you.”

“Don't bother about me, Rob. I don't care if they never discover the culprit. Miss Van Norman is gone; it can't restore her to life if they do learn who killed her.”

Fessenden looked mystified.

“That's strange talk, Schuyler,—but of course you're fearfully upset, and I suppose just at first it isn't surprising that you feel that way. But surely,—as man to man, now,—you want to find and punish the wretch that put an end to that beautiful young life.”

“Yes,—I suppose so;” Carleton spoke hesitatingly, and drew his hand across his brow in the same dazed way he did when in the witness box.

“You're done up, old man, and I'm not going to bother you to-night. But I'm on the hunt, if you aren't, and I'm going ahead on a few little trails, hoping they'll lead to something of more importance. By the way, what
were
you doing in those few minutes last night between your entering the house and entering the library?”

Carleton stared at his guest.

“I don't know what you mean,” he said.

“Yes, you do. You went in at eleven-fifteen, and you called for help at eleven-thirty.”

“No,—it didn't take as long as that.” Carleton's eyes had a far-away look, and Rob grasped his arm and shook him, as he said:

“Drop it, man! Drop that half-dazed way of speaking! Tell me, clearly, what did you do in that short interval?”

“I refuse to state,” said Carleton quietly, but with a direct glance now that made Fessenden cease his insistence.

“Very well,” he said; “it's of no consequence. Now tell me what you were doing last evening before you went over to the house?”

At this Carleton showed a disposition to be both haughty and ironical.

“Am I being questioned,” he said, “and by you? Well, before I went to Miss Van Norman's I was walking in the rose-garden with Miss Burt. You saw me from your window.”

“I did,” said Rob gravely. “Were you with Miss Burt until the time of your going over to the Van Norman house?”

“No,” said Carleton, with sarcastic intonation. “I said good-night to Miss Burt about three-quarters of an hour before I started to go over to Miss Van Norman's. Do you want to know what I did during
that
interval?”

“Yes.”

“I was in my own room—my den. I did what many a man does on the eve of his wedding. I burned up a few notes,—perhaps a photograph or two,—and one withered rose-bud,—a ‘keepsake.' Does this interest you?”

“Not especially, but, Schuyler, do drop that resentful air. I'm not quizzing you, and if you don't want to talk about the subject at all, we won't.”

“Very well—I don't.”

“Very well, then.”

The two men rose, and as Carleton held out his hand Rob grasped it and shook it heartily, then they went to the drawing-room and rejoined the ladies.

The Van Norman affair was not mentioned again that evening.

All felt a certain oppression in the atmosphere, and all tried to dispel it, but it was not easy. Uninteresting topics of conversation were tossed from one to another, but each felt relieved when at last Mrs. Carleton rose to go upstairs and the evening was at an end.

Fessenden went to his room, his brain a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.

He sat down by an open window and endeavored to classify them into some sort of order.

First, he was annoyed at Carleton's inexplicable attitude. Granting he was in love with Miss Burt, he had no reason to act so unconcerned about the Van Norman tragedy. And yet Schuyler's was a peculiar nature, and doubtless all this strange behavior of his was merely the effort to hide his real sorrow.

But again, if he were in love with Miss Burt, his sorrow for the loss of Madeleine was for the loss of her fortune and not herself. This Fessenden refused to believe, but the more he refused to believe it, the more it came back to him. Then there was his new notion, that came to him at dinner, about Miss Burt. Carleton said she was the ingenuous, timid girl she looked, but Rob couldn't believe it. Executive ability showed in that determined little chin. Veiled cunning lurked in the shadows of those innocent eyes. And the girl had a motive. Surely she wanted her rival out of her way. Then she had said good-night to Schuyler nearly an hour before he went over to Madeleine's. Could she have—but, nonsense! Even if she had been so inclined, how could she have entered the house? Ah, that settled it! She couldn't. And Fessenden was honestly glad of it. Honestly glad that he had proved to himself that Miss Burt—lovely, alluring little Dorothy Burt—was not the hardened criminal for whom he was looking!

Then it came back to Schuyler. No! Never Schuyler! But if not he, then who? And what was he doing in that incriminating interval, and why wouldn't he tell?

And then, idly gazing from his window Rob saw again two figures walking in the rose-garden And they were the same two that he had seen there the evening before.

Schuyler Carleton and Dorothy Burt were strolling,—no, now they were standing, standing close to each other in earnest conversation.

Rob was no eavesdropper, and of course he couldn't hear a word they said, but somehow he found it impossible to take his eyes from those two figures.

Steadily they talked,—so engrossed in their conversation that they scarcely moved; then Schuyler's arm went slowly round the girl's shoulders.

Gently she drew away, and he did not then again offer a caress.

Rob sat looking at them, saying frankly to himself that he was justified in doing so, since his motive effaced all consideration of puerile conventions. If that girl were really the designing young woman he took her to be,—more, if she could be the author, directly or indirectly, of that awful crime,—then Fessenden vowed he would save Schuyler from her fascinations at the risk of breaking their own lifelong friendship.