I HAD news of Brane's death from the very priest whose hands I had mutilated in the door of the trap. The fellow had been disciplined, unfrocked, driven from Russia, where it was no longer possible for him to make a living, and, as my method is, I had kept in touch with him. I had even helped him to make a sort of fresh start—oh, by no means an honorable one—in America, and purposely I'd seen to it that his new activities should keep him in the neighborhood of Pine Cone. One who knows the underworld as I do, Janice, has friends everywhere, has a tool to her hand in the remotest corners of the earth. Gast was my spy on Theodore Brane; Gast and the Baron. That nobleman, upon whom I dare say you thought you made such an impression, Janice, was at one time Theodore's valet. I knew him for a thief in the old days, but I kept him in the household and so completely in subjection that the wretch would tremble whenever he caught my eye. He, too, came over to this country, and, ostensibly, his business became that of a cabinet-maker, a dealer in old furniture. He had other, less reputable, business on the side. At various times Brane bought furniture through him—Brane was always ready to do a kindness to his inferiors. It was through the Baron that Theodore got possession of that bookcase, the one with the double back, but our wily ex-valet did n't put me wise to the possible hiding-place,—even after I let him know that Brane had something to hide—till I had bribed him for all I was worth. That is, he never did put me wise. He blabbed his secret to you. It was only by finding you on your knees before the shelves, the night after that fool's visit, that I guessed he'd given himself away to my double. Till then I did n't realize how safe I was in depending upon our resemblance, pretty daughter. But, after that night, I amused myself greatly at your expense. And I admit, Janice, I am forced to admit, that you amused yourself at mine. I had no notion till to-night that you had dared to use Maida, to question her, to force her to write notes! And then, to write to Gast, to meet him, to get his translation and to destroy it—Dieu! you have some courage, some wit, my girl!”

Her tone of pride, of complete power set my heart on fire with anger, so that for a moment, I even lost my fear.

“Who found that letter of Gast's under the arbor seat? Whoever it was—I suppose it must have been you—put me into a rage that was like enough to drive me to any sort of violence. It was the last force of it that you felt in the woods that afternoon. Dieu! I suffered from that anger. To lie closed up in the wall, gnawing my own vitals, helpless, and to know that you had got the clue, that you would perhaps be making use of it! It was lucky for me that Jaffrey mentioned in my hearing the trip that you were planning to Pine Cone. I enjoyed thrashing you, Janice, and I enjoyed my little game at your friend Dabney's expense.... But I am going too fast, I must get back to the beginning again. What are you shaking for now? Scared? No, I believe you're angry.”

She peered into my burning face, and met the look, which must have been a hateful one, blazing in my eyes.

“Remember, my dear,” she said tauntingly, “that it behooves you to be in charity with all the world.”

Indeed, it was not the least of my torments on that terrible night to know that the last images to possess my brain should be such horrid ones, of treachery, and cruelty, and murder. Sometimes I thought I would close my eyes to her, shut out her presence from my mind, but the feat was impossible. I was too greatly fascinated by her smooth, sweet voice, by her vital presence, by the interest of her story.

“As I was telling you,” she went on, “it was through Father Gast that I heard of Brane's sudden death. It gave me the fright of my life, for I thought he must have told about the treasures to his wife. Gast swore that the Englishman had n't the courage to make use of his trove any more than he had the courage to confess its whereabouts, but I decided that there was no time to lose. Mrs. Brane might have a bolder spirit.

“I came over to this country disguised as a meek, brown-haired young widow, named Mrs. Gaskell, and I rented a room above the Pine Cone drug-store. This was last fall, about two months after Theodore Brane's death.

“Ask Mrs. Brane some time—oh, I forgot, you are not apt to see her again—no doubt, if you did ask her, she would tell you about the dear, sweet woman who brought her little runaway Robbie home one afternoon and took a friendly cup of tea with her. Yes, and learned in about half an hour—only this the silly, little chatter-box would n't admit—more about the habits of her husband and about her own life and plans and character than most of the detectives I've hoodwinked could have learned in a month. If it had n't been for Mrs. Gaskell, and for Mrs. Gaskell's popularity with Robbie's nurse, and for Mrs. Gaskell's skill in winning Robbie's confidence, I should never have learned about that hole in the kitchen closet.

“Mary was n't Robbie's nurse in those days. Oh, no, my task would n't have been so easy in that case. He was being cared for by a happy-go-lucky negro woman from whom he ran away about twice a week. She had a passion for driving over to Pine Cone every time George went for supplies, and she was only too willing to leave her charge with Mrs. Gaskell, who did so adore little children. From that girl I learned all about the habits of 'The Pines' household, and from Robbie himself I got the clue of clues.

“I understood that child. I could play upon him as though he had been a little instrument of strings. He was the kind of secretive, sensitive little animal that can be opened up or shut tight at will. A harsh look would scare him into a deaf-mute, a little kindness would set him chattering. I asked him questions about the house: where his father had worked and spent most of his time; where he himself played; what, especially, were his favorite play-places. He told me there were lots of closets in the house, but that he was 'scared of dark closets,' and he was 'most scared of the closet under the kitchen stairs.' I asked him why, and he told me a long story about going in there and finding his father bent over at one end of it—one of those mixed-up, garbled accounts that children give; but I gathered that his father had been vexed at the child's intrusion, and had told him to keep out of the kitchen and out of the kitchen closet. It was the faintest sort of clue, a mere will-o'-the-wisp, but I decided to follow it up.

“One day, when I knew that all the servants at 'The Pines' were off to a county fair, I met with Robbie and his nurse, and easily persuaded the girl to let me take her charge back to 'The Pines' while she joined the other holiday-seekers. Robbie and I got a lift, and we were dropped at 'The Pines' gate. I asked him to take me up to the house by a short cut, and in through the kitchen garden. I told him to pick me a nice nosegay of flowers, and I went in to get a 'drink of water.' The kitchen was empty, and I lost no time in slipping into the small kitchen closet. I saw at once that it had been purposely crowded with heavy stuff, and I began to search it. Of course I found the hole; I even went into the hollow wall here, and explored the whole passage. Dieu! I was excited, pleased! I knew that I was on the track of my treasure. And I saw how easy it would be for some one to hide in that wall, and live there comfortably enough for an indefinite time. I had what I'd come for, and I decided that Mrs. Gaskell's stay in Pine Cone would come to an end that night.

“It was disconcerting to hear Robbie's voice calling, 'Mithith Gathkell, where are you? I was still in the passageway, but I crawled through that hole in a hurry—too late! I met Robbie face to face. He'd come to find me, and was standing timidly in the closet doorway with his hands full of flowers. I knew that I should have to tie up his tongue for good and all. I fixed him with my eyes, and let my face change till it must have looked like the face of the worst witch in the worst old fairy-tale he'd ever heard, and then, still staring at him, I slowly lifted off my brown wig and I drew up my own red hair till it almost touched the top of the kitchen closet. And I said, 'Grrrrrrrrr! I'm the witch that lives under the stairs! I'm the witch that lives under the stairs!' in the worst voice I could get out of my throat, a sort of suckling gobble it was, pretty bad!”

She laughed, and again my rage and hatred overwhelmed my fear. “I had to run at him, and put my hand over his mouth or he'd have raised the roof with his screams. I got my wig on again, and I carried him out into the garden, and I told him that if ever he went near that closet or even whispered to any one that he'd seen that red-haired woman, I'd tell her to come and stand by his bed at night and stick her face down at him till he was all smothered by her long red hair. He was all confused and trembling. I don't know what he thought. He seemed to imagine that Mrs. Gaskell and the witch were two distinct people, but, at any rate, he was scared out of his little wits, and I knew when I got through with him that wild horses would n't tear the story of that experience out of him. Children are like that, you know.”

I did know, and I lay there and cursed her in my heart. I thought of what agonies the poor little child had suffered in the mysterious silence of his baby mind—that pitiful, terrible silence of childhood that has covered so many cruelties, so much unspeakable fear, since the childhood of the human race began. My heart, crushed as it was, ached for little Robbie, sickened for him. I would have given so much to hold him in my arms, and comfort him, and reassure his little shaken soul. God willing, he was happy now, and reassured past all the powers of earth or hell to disturb his beautiful serenity.

THE next morning”—again I was listening to the story—“Mrs. Gaskell left Pine Cone to the regret of all its inhabitants. I doubt if ever there has been a more popular summer visitor. And not many days afterwards, a gypsy woman came to 'The Pines' to peddle cheap jewelry. Old Delia was in the kitchen, and old Delia refused to take any interest in the wares. She told the woman to clear out, but she refused to go until she had been properly dismissed by the lady of the house. At last, to get rid of her, Delia went off to speak to her mistress, and no sooner had she closed the door, than the gypsy slipped across the kitchen, and got herself into that closet. And the odd part of it is, that she never came out. When Delia returned with more emphatic orders of dismissal, the peddling gypsy had gone. Nobody had seen her leave the place, but that did not cause much distress to any one but Mrs. Brane. I think that she was disturbed; at least I know that she ordered a thorough search of the house and grounds, for footsteps were running all about everywhere that day, and lights were kept burning in the house all night. I think, perhaps, some of the negroes sat up to keep watch. But the peddler made not so much as a squeak that night. She lay on a pile of blankets she had carried in on her back, and she ate a crust of bread and an apple. She was sufficiently comfortable, and very much pleased with herself. Towards morning she went to sleep and slept far into the next day.

“So you see, Janice, there I was in the house, and I was sure that not far from me was Brane's treasure trove. This double wall of which he had evidently made use—he had built up that queer flight of steps and made a floor and an inclined plane—convinced me that I was hot on the track of the jewels. You can guess how I worked to find them. All to no purpose. I had to be very careful. Rats, to be sure, make a noise in the walls of old houses, but the noise is barely noticeable, and it does not sound like carpentry. However, I had convinced myself, by the end of the third dreary day, that if the robe and crown were hidden in the double wall, they were very secretly and securely hidden, and that I should need some further directions to find them. It was annoying, especially as my provisions had given out, and I knew that I should have to venture down into the kitchen at night and pick up some fragments of food. I was glad then and all the time, that Mrs. Brane's servants were such decrepit old bodies, half-blind and half-deaf, and altogether stupid. Many's the time I've crouched behind the junk in that closet and listened to their silly droning! But it gave me a sad jump when I heard the voice of Mrs. Brane's first housekeeper.

“She was young and nervous, and had a high, breathless manner of talking, and she was bent upon efficiency. Well, so was I. I had decided that, outside of the wall, there were two rooms in the Brane house that must be thoroughly investigated—the bookroom where Theodore kept his collection of Russian books, and the room upstairs in the north wing which he had used as a sort of den, and which, after his death, Mrs. Brane had converted into a nursery. I think she must have had a case of nerves after her husband's death, for she was set on having a housekeeper and a new nurse for Robbie, and she was always flitting about that house like a ghost. Maybe, after all, he had dropped her a hint about some money or jewels being hidden somewhere in the house! That was Maida's notion, for she says Mrs. Brane was as keen as 'Sara' about cleaning out the old part of the house, and never left her alone an instant.

“To get back to the first days I spent in this accursed wall... that housekeeper gave me a lot of misery. In the first place, she slept in the north wing, the room you had, Janice,”—I was almost accustomed to this horrible past tense she used towards me; I was beginning to think of my own life as a thing that was over—“and she was a terribly light sleeper. Twice, as I was sneaking along that passageway trying to locate the rooms, she came out with a candle in her hand, and all but saw me. I decided that my only chance to really search the place lay in getting rid of the inhabitants of that northern wing. I thought, perhaps, I could give that part of the house a bad name. Once it was empty, I could practically live there. I had n't reckoned with that bull-dog of a Mary.

“It was easy enough to scare the housekeeper. I found out just where the wall of her bedroom stood, and I got close behind it near her bed and groaned. That was quite enough. Two nights, and the miserable thing left. Mrs. Brane got another woman at once, a lazy, absent-minded woman, and I wasted no time getting rid of her. I simply stole near to her bed one pitch-black night, and sighed. She left almost at once.

“Then Mrs. Brane, confound her! sent to New York to Skane for a detective, and he played house-boy for a fortnight. I had to keep as still as a mouse. I was almost starved, for I did n't dare take enough food to hoard, and for a while that detective prowled the house all night. I must have come near looking like a ghost in those days. Thank God, the entire quiet bored Skane's man, and reassured the rest of the household. When he had gone I did n't try ghost-tricks for sometime. I fed myself up, and did a little night-prowling, down in the bookroom, and in some of the empty bedrooms, with no result. Then came the third housekeeper.

“That third housekeeper, my dear daughter, all but did for me. She was a fussy little female with the sort of energy that goes prying about for unnecessary pieces of labor. And she lit upon the kitchen closet. Fortunately, Delia and the other two women were so annoyed by her methods that they did n't take up her instructions to clean out the closet with any zeal. So, one morning, I heard her in the kitchen scolding and carrying on, 'You lazy women, I'll just have to shame you by doing it myself.'

“Now, while I crouched there, listening to her, it occurred to me that I had heard her voice before. I racked my frightened brains. I had never seen the woman, but I was certain that the voice, a peculiar one, belonged somewhere in my memory. I decided there might be some useful association. I risked coming into the closet, and taking a look. Then I fled back and laughed to myself. I had known that little wax-face when she was a very great somebody's maid, and I knew enough about her to send her to the chair. Was n't it luck! I went back into my hole, for all the world like a spider, and sat there waiting for my prey.

“She did a lot of clattering around in the closet; then, I knew by the silence, that she'd lit upon the hole. I crept near, and waited for her, crouched in the dark. She came crawling through the hole—I can see her silly, pale, dust-streaked face now! I pounced upon her with all the swiftness and the silence of a long-legged tarantula. I stopped her mouth before she could squeal, and I carried her back to the end of the passage here, and I talked to her for about five seconds. At the end of that time every bone in her body had turned to water. She had sworn as though to God to hold her tongue, and to get out of the house; to keep her mouth shut forever and ever, amen. And I let her go. She scuttled out of the closet like a rat, and I heard her tell Delia to leave the place alone. The third housekeeper left the next day, and, as I heard by listening to kitchen gossip, she gave no reason for her going.

“But, of course, I had had a terrible experience myself. I was n't going to risk anything like that again. Besides, I was sick of living in the wall. I got out that night—half the time Delia forgot to lock the outside door, and always blamed her own carelessness when she found it open in the morning. I had decent clothes with me, and I tramped to a station at some distance, and went up to New York. I'd decided to take a few of my pals in on the game. I had several old pals in New York, and some introductions. It's a first-class city for crooks, almost as good as London, and not half so well policed. And there, my girl, I took the trouble of hunting you up.

“It was n't because I meant to use you at 'The Pines.' It was just out of curiosity—motherly love”—I wish I could describe the drawling irony of the expression on her lips. “You are one of the people I've kept track of. I always felt you might be useful, that I might be able to frighten you into usefulness. Many's the time I've seen you when you were a child, and, later, when you were working in Paris. Not much more than a child then, but such a slim, little, white-faced beauty. What was it, the work? Oh, yes, you were a little assistant milliner, and you turned down the chance of being Monsieur le Baron's maÎtresse, and lost your job for the reward of virtue—little fool! I knew you had gone to America, but I had lost track of your whereabouts. I soon picked up your tracks, though, and found out that you were in New York looking for work. Your beauty has been against you, Janice; it's always against moral and correct living. It's a great help in going to the devil and beating him at his own game, however, as you might discover if I were immoral enough to let you live. The instant I set eyes on you in New York and saw what a ridiculous copy of your mother you had grown to be, I felt that here was an opportunity of some sort if I could only make use of it. I racked my brains, and, as usual, the inspiration came.

“I got Mrs. Brane's advertisement, so far unanswered, and I handed it to you myself in the street. As soon as I was sure that you had got the job, I left for 'The Pines.' I slipped in like a thief at night, one of the nights when Delia forgot to lock the back door. I had shadowed you pretty closely those days between the time you answered the advertisement, and left for 'The Pines,' and it was n't a difficult matter for me to get a copy of your wardrobe. You don't know what a help it was to me that you chose a sort of uniform. I knew that you'd be wearing one of those four gray dresses most of the time.

“After you were in the house, I grew pretty bold, and it was then I decided to get Robbie out of that nursery. So I made myself up as the witch that lives under the stairs, and waked him by bending down over his bed with my hair hanging in his face. I was nearly caught at it, too, by Mary, and I scared the old women out of the house—which I had n't in the least intended to do.

“I didn't half like Mrs. Brane's plan of getting a man and wife to take the place of the old women, and I saw at once the necessity for Jaffrey and Maida. However, I was determined not to let them know that there were two red-haired women in the house. I was fascinated by this plan of using you, Janice, of getting witnesses to swear to your identity as Madame TrÈme, of baiting a trap—with you for bait—into which all of my accomplices would tumble, as they have tumbled, and, then, as a last stroke, putting an end to you and making a clean get-away myself. If any one swings for your murder, it will be Maida, who left 'The Pines' so hurriedly and secretly to-night.

“There's another reason why I did n't take them into the secret of your resemblance: I was glad to have them fancy themselves always under my eye. The risk of their giving themselves away to you was very small, for I had arranged a signal, without which they were positively forbidden to show by sign, or look, or word, even when they seemed to be alone with me, that they had any collusion with Mrs. Brane's housekeeper, that they thought her anything in the world but Mrs. Brane's housekeeper. I have my tools pretty well scared, Janice, and I knew they would obey my orders to the letter.”

In this Madame was wrong. Maida and Jaffrey had both disobeyed this order. With no signal from me, they had spoken in their own character to me as though I had indeed been Madame TrÈme. Like the plans of most generals, Madame's plans had their weak points.

“You know how it all worked,” she went on, unconscious of my mental connotations, “and, then, sacre nom de Dieu! came 'Dabney'!

“God! How the rats scuttled in the house the night after he came! I had Maida to thank for putting me wise. That innocent-faced, slim youngster, with his air of begging-off punishment—I admit, he'd have given me very little uneasiness. You see—”

As she talked I had been watching her with the fixity of my despair, but, a few moments before this last speech of hers concerning Dabney, the flickering of the light across her face had drawn my attention to the second candle. It had burned for more than half its length, and I knew that morning was at hand.

Morning, and a faint hope! The story was not finished, and, though I thought I could tell the rest myself, the woman was so absorbed in the delightful contemplation of her triumph and her cleverness, that I knew she would go on to the end. The wild, resurgent hope deafened me for a few minutes to her low murmur of narration. It had come to me like a flash that, with my legs unbound, I might be able to knock over the candle, put it out, get to my feet in one lightning spring, and make a dash for the hole in the closet. Would there not be a chance of my reaching it alive? Would not the noise of my flight, in spite of my stocking feet and the handkerchief over my mouth, be enough to attract the attention even of a sleeping house, much more certainly, of an awakened and suspicious one? It was, of course a desperate hope, but I could not help but entertain it. If I could force myself to wait till morning had surely come, till there was the stir and murmur of awakening life, surely—oh, dear God!—surely, there might be one little hope of life. I was young and strong and active. I must not die here in this horrible wall. I must not bear the infamy of this woman's guilt. I must not lie dead and unspeakably defiled in the sight of the man I loved.

Paul Dabney's face, haggard, wistful, appeared before me, and my whole heart cried out to its gray and doubting eyes for help, for pity, for belief.

Unluckily, the woman, sensitive as a cat, had become aware of the changed current of my thought, of the changed direction of my look. She, too, glanced at the candle and gave a little exclamation of dismay that stabbed the silence like a suddenly bared knife.

“Bah!” she said, “it must be daylight, and I have n't half confessed myself. Pests on the time! We've been here four or five hours. Are you cramped?”

I was insufferably cramped. The pain of my arms and shoulders, the cutting of the twine about my wrists, were torment. I was very thirsty, too. But nothing was so cruel as the sinking of my heart which her words caused me.

“I suppose I shall have to cut it short,” she said. “After all, you must know it almost as well as I do, especially since you had the nerve to play my part with Maida. The worst trick you put over on me was when you pulled Dabney out of the mud—curse the mud, anyway; if it had been a real quicksand he'd have been done for; but his getting back alive that night certainly crossed me, and, as for Maida, she was in a devil's rage. She could n't understand how he'd escaped. She cursed, and raved, and threatened even me. It was all that Jaffrey and I could do to hold her; she was for giving up the whole game and making a getaway before it was too late. As a matter of fact, it was already too late for any one but me. Hovey had you all just where he wanted you. At any instant he could bag you all. I had known that for some time. If it had n't been for your beaux yeux, Janice, and a little bit, perhaps, because of my own pretty ways, all of you would be jailed by now. After you'd rescued your Dabney, I had to play a bold, prompt game. I knew that the spell could n't hold much longer. I could see by the strained look on that boy's face that he was at the snapping point. I told Maida to search the bookcase that night. Action of some kind was necessary to keep her in hand. I did n't know that you had already taken away the paper. Gast had told me about the paper when I was in New York, and the Baron had hinted at its possible hiding-place. He came down here that day to tell me—I'd bribed him for all I was worth. He was going to leave word with Maida. Then, of course, he saw you and the poor fool thought I was playing housekeeper, under 'Dabney's' very nose.

“The night after Dabney's rescue, after you'd saved his life at the risk of your own, I whistled him into the arbor under your window and kissed him for you. Were your maiden dreams disturbed?—No, no, my girl, don't try to get your hands free”—for in my anger at her words I had begun to wrench at my bonds—“you'll just cut your wrists to the bone. Eh, did n't I tell you?” I felt the blood run down my hands, and stopped, gasping with pain. She went on as coolly as before. “I found out that night, when Maida came to me in the wall with her bad news, that you'd got ahead of us. I was n't so much scared as I might have been, for I knew that Brane had had his directions translated into the Slavonic tongue; I suppose the poor, cracked fool did it to protect his treasure from accidental discovery. He was crazed by having all that money in his possession, and not being bold enough to use it. All his actions prove that his mind was quite unbalanced. He just spun a fantastic web of mystery about the hidden stuff because he had n't the nerve to do anything else. I imagine he meant to tell his wife, but he died suddenly of paralysis, and was n't able to do so. He'd hired a priest to help him with the paper, and Gast, shadowing my former lover, and knowing that he had the robe and crown, managed to find out what he'd been doing. Gast did n't get the substance of the paper, but he learned from the priest that an eccentric Englishman, writing a story of adventure, had asked him to translate a paragraph into Old Russian. Gast handed on this information to me, and promised to translate the paragraph when I was lucky enough to find it.

“Janice, when I found out that I'd been fool enough to lose Gast's letter, which he'd sent to me through Maida, and by losing it, had put the means of getting a translation into your hands, I gnawed my fingers! I was half mad then. When you made your first trip to Pine Cone, and Dabney had you shadowed so closely that I could n't follow you myself—I knew that you were sending Gast a letter. I was n't sure you'd dare to meet him, though. I thought you might risk sending him the paper. I risked my own life by bribing George to leave you in Pine Cone to foot it home alone, and I risked it again by following you and laying that trap for you in the woods. I risked it because I was certain that you would have the translation hidden in your dress. I pushed the pine tree over after George had passed; it needed only a push. Nom de Dieu! You cannot know what frenzy seized me when I found out that again you had outwitted me. I wanted to kill you that day. I wanted to beat you to death there, and leave you dead. But you were a little too valuable. I decided to cripple you, to put you out of running for a few days while I got hold of the fool priest myself. That was only yesterday, but it seems an age. You must be made of iron, Janice! You came near defeating me to-night—the insolence of it! You, a chit of a girl!

“This morning I gave Maida a letter for Gast, and I thought it was to mail it that she went out after supper to-night. When I found her note under my plate I had a shock. I was sure she had found out something important. I went down to the bridge. Yes. You may have the satisfaction. Make the most of it. I did go down to the bridge, but I did n't wait long. Ten minutes was enough. Do you suppose Maida would be late for an appointment with me? Not if she was living. No, my girl, I stood there and realized that you might have worked the trick, that you might have sent Maida out of the way, might have decoyed me, might, even at that instant, be on the track of my jewels. God! How I ran back to the house! When I found the kitchen door locked—I knew. I went round to the front door and rang the bell. I was n't going to lose time snooping around for unfastened windows—not with Dabney in the house! I suppose he was sleeping sound because he, too, thought you were safely laid by the heels. Jaffrey answered the bell, and looked surprised, confound him! I gave him some excuse, and went like the wind up to your room. Sure enough, it was empty. I waited till Jaffrey had got back to his bed, and then I hurried down to the kitchen. You know the rest. You know it all now. To the end. But you don't quite know the end.”