  “Listen, Joyce, dear. You are nervous and excited, or you never would do Mr. Courtenay such injustice. Think back; remember how he has always loved you—long before you married Eric. How patient and good he has been, never showing any undue interest in you or any animosity toward Eric. Why, then, imagine that he would do this desperate thing?” “That’s just it, Beatrice. He restrained his feelings as long as he could, and that night—in the Billiard Room, he—he lost control—and he said he—he c-couldn’t stand it. You know he thought Eric didn’t treat me right——” “And Eric didn’t. But even if Mr. Courtenay did lose his head for a moment, that doesn’t mean he was the murderer, and you mustn’t suspect him, Joyce.” “But you know what Orienta said—about a dark man with a pointed beard. Who else could it have been?” “Other men have dark hair and beards. And Orienta couldn’t see him clearly, you know.” “I know. And you are a comfort, Beatrice. But I never can marry Eugene if he has even a shadow of doubt hanging over him. I want him cleared.” “Of course you do. And as he is innocent, he will clear himself.” “Maybe not. If he can’t find anybody who saw him out there on the bench, he will be arrested, and——” “Oh, no, he won’t. Why, somebody must have seen him!” “If any of the servants had, they would have said so.” “They weren’t asked. What about Barry?” “Oh, I think Barry was off in the other direction, down by the orchards. But, Beatrice, maybe Mr. Wadsworth saw him. Didn’t he leave you just about that time?” “Yes, or a few moments sooner. Shall I ask him?” “Oh, no. He’s a fine man, and if he did see Eugene, his word will stand. Are you going to—do you care for him, Beatrice?” “No, Joyce. He is, as you say, a fine man, and he has asked me many times to marry him, but I do not love him in that way. I admire and respect him, that is all.” “Poor Mr. Wadsworth. He worships the ground you walk on. Perhaps later, when all this horror is a thing of the past, you may change your mind.” “Never, Joyce. But I’ll ask Mr. Wadsworth about Eugene. You telephone him to come over here. If I do——” “He’ll take it as encouragement. Yes, I know. I’ll do it.” Joyce called him up on the telephone, and Wadsworth came over to the Folly that evening. “Why, yes, I think so,” he said, when questioned by Beatrice. “Let me see; when I left here, I walked a couple of times round the Italian garden paths, hesitating as to whether I should come back for one last appeal, or accept your refusal as final. I decided on the latter course, and was planning to go away on a long trip, to—to make myself keep away from you.” He looked tenderly into the troubled face gazing into his own. “I don’t want to persist too hard, dear, but I am of a determined nature, and I can’t give you up. So, I’m going away, but I warn you I shall yet return and ask you once more—yes, once more, Beatrice.” “That is in the future,” she returned, gravely, “but now, let us see if we can help poor Joyce.” “Poor Courtenay, as well! Now, I think I did see him, as I came along the South lawn. I’m sure I saw some man on the bench out there, and it was much the outline of Courtenay. And then, yes, I remember now, just then the light went out, and I couldn’t see him clearly. Of course, I thought nothing of the light being put out. I assumed the people were going to bed, but it was that that decided me not to return to see you again that night. Had the lights staid on, I fancy, after all, I should have entered the house again.” They were alone in the studio. It was but partially lighted, and Beatrice shuddered as she looked around the great apartment. “Come out of here,” she said; “I hate the place, it seems to be haunted by Eric’s spirit. Come into the Reception Room.” Wadsworth followed as she went through the hall, but detained her a moment. “What has become of your portrait painted on the staircase?” he asked. “It’s in the studio,” she replied. “It isn’t quite finished, you know.” “Mayn’t I see it?” “Not now. Some time.” “Stand on the stairs, the way the picture is painted.” Humouring his whim, Beatrice went up three steps and posed her hand on the balustrade, as Eric had painted her. “Beautiful. Stannard was a wonderful genius. I want that picture, dear. I don’t care if it is unfinished. If I can’t have the original—yet—will you give me the duplicate?” “No, oh, no!” and Beatrice looked startled. “I’d hate you to have it, with this staircase and all——” “I thought you loved this staircase——” “As an architectural gem, yes. Mr. Faulkner prided himself on its design. But now—Eric’s death——” “Oh, yes, you stood right there, when your attention was first drawn to the footman’s queer actions, didn’t you?” “Yes; I was just on this very step when I heard that faint moan—oh, don’t remind me of it.” “I won’t. I was a brute to be so thoughtless. Dear heart, can’t you leave this house? Why do you stay in a place of such sad memories?” “I do want to go away—and I must. And yet, Joyce needs me. She leans on me for everything. Come into this little room, and sit down.” They went into the cosy, low-ceiled Reception Room, and Beatrice continued. “I was just thinking I could leave her, when she became worried about Mr. Courtenay. Now, if you can convince the police that you saw him out there, just at that critical moment when the light disappeared, you will establish his alibi. Can you do this?” “I’m sure I can. The more I think about it, the more I feel sure that it was Courtenay I saw.” “Had he a hat on?” “No, but his hand on the back of the bench held a cap. I saw this clearly, for the light from the studio window was very strong. But as I looked at the man, the light went out. Understand, I was not looking at him with any curiosity or even interest. Merely he was in my line of vision, that is all. When I could not see him because of the sudden darkness, I thought no more of him, and I went home then.” “And you will go to the police and tell them this?” “I certainly will, the first thing to-morrow morning. To-night, if you prefer.” “No, wait till morning. Stay here a little longer. I feel lonely to-night.” “Dear heart, can’t you learn to look to me to cheer that loneliness?” “Don’t—you promised you wouldn’t. But let’s chat a bit. Tell me, do you believe at all in spiritism?” “Spiritualism?” “No; spiritism. They’re quite different. Spiritualism is the old-fashioned table-tipping, rapping performance. Spiritism is the scientific consideration of life after death.” “Of course, I believe in life after death——” “But do you think the dead can return and communicate with us?” “By rapping and tipping tables?” “No, not at all. By silent communion, or by a restless haunting of places they used to occupy? There! didn’t you hear a faint sound then? A soft rustle, as of wings?” “No, I didn’t, and neither did you. That Orienta person has you all unnerved. I won’t stand it. I insist on your leaving this house. If I see to it, that the police are fully informed of my evidence regarding Courtenay, will you get away at once?” “I’d be glad to, if Joyce is willing I should go. Natalie is fond of me, too. But Barry will look after her. Yes, if Mr. Courtenay is freed of all suspicion, I will go away at once.” Roger Wadsworth’s story carried weight with the police, who were already rather sceptical of testimony obtained from a clairvoyant. And as Courtenay himself said to Captain Steele, “Your precious detective, Roberts, forced that woman to describe me. Even granting she had an hallucination, or whatever those people have, she didn’t say anything about a pointed beard, or evening clothes and no hat, until he suggested it. Then she said ‘yes.’ If he’d said, ‘hasn’t he red hair and freckles?’ she would have said ‘yes,’ also! It’s auto-suggestion. Her mind was a blank, and any hint took form of a picture which she thought she saw. But since you’ve put me on the rack, I’m going into this thing myself. For reasons of my own, I’m going to hunt down the murderer of Eric Stannard. There’s nobody on the job that has any push or perseverance. Young Stannard doesn’t want the truth known. Why, I can’t say. Nobody suspects him. But from now on, count on my untiring efforts. I’m ready to work with you, Captain Steele, or with Roberts, or any one you say. Or I’ll work alone. But solve the mystery I’m bound to!” Courtenay’s manner went far to convince all who heard him of his own innocence, though Bobsy Roberts afterward growled something about “protesting too much.” But when Courtenay said he would be at their bidding if they learned anything against him, they agreed to let him go in peace to pursue his own inquiries. And he went first to Lawyer Stiles, to look into the matter of Stannard’s will. “The first motive to consider,” Courtenay said to the surprised lawyer, “is always a money motive. Who benefits by this will, aside from the principals?” Stiles produced the document, and they went over its possibilities. Suddenly Courtenay started in astonishment. “Have you noticed anything peculiar about this will?” he asked. The lawyer looked at him with a somewhat blank expression. “Just what do you mean?” he said. “Ah, then you have seen it! Were you going to let it pass unnoted?” “I must ask you to explain your enigmatical remarks.” “And I will do so. That will has been tampered with, and you know it!” “Tampered with?” “Don’t repeat my words like a parrot! Yes, tampered with. The original, written in Mr. Stannard’s own hand, has been added to by some one else.” “What makes you think so?” “I don’t think so, I know so. Now, why haven’t you made it known? You must have seen it?” “Where is the fancied alteration?” Courtenay looked at the stern face of the lawyer, and wondered if he could be dishonest or if he had been blind. He laid his finger on one clause, the one stating Natalie Vernon’s bequest, and said, “There, that is the place. That was written seven thousand dollars, it has been changed to read seventy thousand dollars.” Lawyer Stiles peered at the words through his rubber-rimmed glasses. “It is in letters and figures both,” he demurred, “it would be difficult——” “I know it is. And it was not very difficult to add ty to the written seven, and there chanced to be room for an extra cipher after the original naughts, thus giving the inheritor ten times as much as was intended by the testator.” “Well?” “Well, do you, as a reputable lawyer, admit that you overlook a palpable fraud like that?” “I’m sorry you saw that, Mr. Courtenay. In explanation, I have nothing to say, but justice to myself compels me to remind you that I am in the confidence of the Stannard family, and this is their affair—not yours.” “Whew!” Courtenay gave a short whistle. “I begin to see. They know it, and make no objection.” “Y—yes.” “Who knows it?” “Barry Stannard.” “And Mrs. Stannard?” “I can’t say. She read the will, but made no comment.” “You’re sure Barry knows?” “I am.” “And he stands for it because Miss Vernon did it! That baby! Who’d think her capable of such a thing?” “Hush, Mr. Courtenay. You’ve no right to accuse her. You’ve no evidence that she did it. In fact, I’m told Miss Vernon writes a large, dashing hand, and this——” “And Eric Stannard’s hand is small and cramped. Yes, a clever forgery. It looks quite a bit like his own writing. But the ink is different, the slant is different, why, a half blind man could see the words have been changed!” “Granting that. What matter, if Barry Stannard doesn’t care? Moreover, he is going to marry Miss Vernon, and the fortune will be theirs jointly.” “But don’t you see? If Natalie Vernon altered that will, she wanted that larger sum, and—she——” “Don’t say it. At least, don’t say it to me. If you want to put the matter up to Barry, go ahead. But I decline to express an opinion or form a conclusion.” “What does Barry say?” “He ignores it. I called his attention to it, and he said, ‘Changed figures? Oh, I guess not. It doesn’t matter, anyway; that, and more, will be at Miss Vernon’s disposal some day.’ So I said no more.” Eugene Courtenay went straight to Joyce. “Do you know anything about a changed figure in Eric’s will?” he asked, bluntly. “No,” she returned; “what do you mean?” “Natalie Vernon altered her bequest from seven thousand dollars to seventy thousand.” “How could she?” “It wasn’t difficult. Eric wrote the will himself. He wrote seven and she made it seventy—the words, I mean. Then he wrote a figure seven and three ciphers, and she squeezed in another cipher. Mighty clever work, but as plain to be seen as a blot on a letter.” “What possessed the child?” “Don’t call her a child. The woman who could and would do that, is a Machiavelli in petticoats. But don’t you see where the knowledge of her act leads us?” “You mean——” Joyce could not say it. “Of course I do. I’ve thought all along there was still a doubt of her.” “Oh, I haven’t. Even if she did alter the will, that doesn’t prove——” “It doesn’t prove—anything. But you know this will was made very recently——” “Of course; Natalie has only been here two months.” “I know it. Well, say, Eric made this bequest to her, soon after she came—you know, Joyce, he was crazy over her from the very beginning——” “Yes, I know it, Eugene.” “And then, when she got a chance, she changed it, and, why, why would she do this, except to inherit—at once?” “Natalie! That dear little thing! Never! I did suspect her the least mite, just at first—but I don’t now.” “Barry does.” “Oh, no! He can’t.” “He does. And that’s why he didn’t want any fuss made about her forgery——” “Don’t call it that!” “It is that. What else can I call it?” “But I can’t believe it. Maybe—maybe somebody else did it. Barry——” “Nonsense! Why should Barry do it, when he fully intended to marry her?” “Oh, I don’t know! It’s all so confusing.” “Not confusing; there’s no doubt she did the forging. But it’s a terrible state of affairs. I don’t want to be the one to accuse her.” “Must you?” “Well, I’d determined to sift things to the bottom to lay my hand on Eric’s murderer. Primarily to clear myself—for your sake. And, too, for the sake of justice and right. I’ll go now, Joyce, I must think this out alone. Good-bye, darling. Don’t worry. I’ll do only what is right, and—what you approve.” |
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