  Instead of showing surprise at this statement, the Coroner broke the breathless silence that followed it, by saying: “Will you please explain what you mean by ‘stealthily?’” “Just what I say,” returned Haviland, bluntly. “She went slowly, now and then pausing to listen, twice drawing back around a corner and peeping out, and then coming forth again; she wore no shoes and carried no light; she went down the big staircase in the manner I have described, and after about ten minutes, returned in the same fashion. That’s what I mean by stealthily.” “What was your errand?” asked Scofield of Estelle. “Nothing. I didn’t go,” she replied, coolly. “She tells an untruth,” said Gray, calmly. “She did go, just as I have described. But it was doubtless on an innocent errand. I have no idea she was implicated in Miss Carrington’s death. I am sure it is of casual explanation,—or, I was sure, until Estelle denied it.” “How was it you chanced to see her?” “I was wakeful, and I was prowling around to find something to read. I went out in the hall and got a magazine from the table, and had returned to my room and was just closing the door, when I saw a white figure glide across the hall. She passed through a moonlit space or I could not have seen her. She was wrapped in a light or white kimono thing, and I should never have thought of it again if it were not for what has happened.” “You knew it to be this Estelle?” “Yes; her red hair was hanging in a braid.” “’Tisn’t red!” snapped Estelle, but Mr. Scofield silenced her with a frown. “Well, auburn, then,” said Haviland, easily. “You may as well own up, Estelle; what did you go down for?” “I didn’t go,” repeated the maid, obstinately, and no cross-questioning could prevail on her to admit otherwise. “All right,” and Haviland shrugged his shoulders; “I suppose it doesn’t matter, as the crime was committed about one o’clock. It’s up to you, Mr. Coroner, to find some person who acted suspiciously nearer that time. And, by the way, as man of business of this estate, unless some worthwhile evidence is forthcoming pretty soon, I’m going to round up a detective or two who will get somewhere.” “Give us a little more time, Mr. Haviland,” said Scofield, suavely, “this inquest is only begun.” “Well, get it over with, and then, if the truth hasn’t come to light, I’ll take a hand.” Miss Frayne was called next, and Anita, with a look of importance on her pretty face, came forward. Her evidence, at first, was merely a repetition of that already heard, and she corroborated Pauline’s recital of the scene as the two girls bade Miss Carrington good-night. “And then?” prompted the Coroner. “Then I went to my room, but I didn’t retire. I sat thinking over what Miss Carrington had said to me. And as I thought about it, I concluded that this time I was really dismissed from her secretaryship. And that made me feel very sorry, for it is a good position and I’ve no wish to lose it. So,—after a time, I began to think I would go to Miss Carrington’s room and if she were still up, I would beg her forgiveness.” “Forgiveness for what?” “For any fancied grievance she might have against me. I have always tried to please her, but she was, er,—difficult, and it was not easy to do the right thing at all times.” “Did you go to her room?” “I went to the door——” “At what time?” “Soon after one o’clock. Not more than five or ten minutes after.” There was a rustle of excitement. The poison was said to be administered at about one! Did this fair doll-like girl know the secret of the tragedy? “Proceed, Miss Frayne; tell the story of anything you saw at that time.” “I saw nothing. But I heard a great deal.” “What was it?” “The door of Miss Carrington’s room was closed, and I was about to tap at it, when I heard talking inside. I paused, and I listened, in order to discover if her maid was still with her, or some one else. If it had been Estelle, I should have tapped for admittance. But it was not.” “Who was it?” “I cannot say. The voice I heard distinctly was that of Miss Carrington herself. Her voice was high-pitched, and of what is called a carrying sort. The things she said were so strange, I lingered, listening, for I was so surprised I couldn’t help it.” “First, I heard her say, quite plainly, ‘Your face is the most beautiful I have ever seen! I wish mine were as beautiful.’ I assumed, then, she must be talking to Miss Stuart, for surely she would not say that to her maid. Then she said, ‘But, to-morrow, I shall be forever freed from this homely face of mine.’” “Miss Frayne, this is very singular! Are you sure you heard correctly?” “I am sure. But there is more. She next said, ‘To-morrow you will be glad!—glad!’ It was almost a scream, that. And she went on, ‘To-morrow all these jewels will be yours,—if you—ah, but will you?’ and then her voice trailed off faintly, and I could hear no more.” “You heard nothing more at all?” “Yes; I waited,—oh, I admit I was eavesdropping, but it was so strange I couldn’t help it,—there was silence. It may well be some one else was replying to her, but I could not make out any other person’s words. A low voice would not be audible like a high-pitched one. But after a moment, Miss Carrington resumed; she said, ‘I shall change my will. Not Carr’s half, that must stand. But the other half shall never go to a niece who has no affection for me!’ Again I heard nothing, for the responses were inaudible. Then Miss Carrington said, in a musing tone: ‘I have already willed you ten thousand dollars of those United States bonds, but——’ And then, after quite a long pause, Miss Carrington cried out, not loudly, but tensely, ‘Henri, Henri! you are the mark I aim at!’ That frightened me so, I ran swiftly back to my room, and locked the door.” “You assumed Henri to be Count Charlier?” “I had no other construction to put upon the words.” “You thought the gentleman was in Miss Carrington’s room?” “I couldn’t think that! And yet, it sounded as if she were speaking to him, not of him.” “This is a very strange story, Miss Frayne. Have you mentioned these things you overheard to any one before this?” “No. I have thought them over, and concluded it was best to tell the story first to you.” “And quite right. It is, then, your opinion that there was another person in Miss Carrington’s room, to whom she was speaking?” “It seemed so to me.” “But you did not hear this other person’s voice?” Anita paused a moment and then said: “Not distinctly.” “Did you hear it at all?” “I cannot say. When I did not hear Miss Carrington’s voice clearly, there were sounds that might have been another person or her own voice speaking more inaudibly.” “Might it not be that she was merely talking to herself,—soliloquizing?” “It could not have been that. She spoke definitely and decidedly to some one when she said ‘Your face is beautiful,’ and when she said, ‘I have willed you ten thousand dollars,’ indeed, every thing she said was as if spoken to some hearer; not as one who talks to herself.” “After you regained your room, did you leave it again?” “No, I did not.” “H’m. Now, are you positive, Miss Frayne, that all these speeches were said just as you have repeated them? It is a great strain on the memory to repeat accurately a conversation as long as the one you have just rehearsed.” “The speeches I heard are burned into my brain. I could not forget them if I would. I may have erred in some minor or unimportant words, but the most of what I heard is precisely as I have repeated it. Indeed, so thoroughly was I amazed at it all, I wrote it down as soon as I reached my room. I had then no thought of—of what was going to happen, but Miss Carrington had made peculiar remarks during the evening about something happening to her, and in connection with that the words I heard seemed so remarkable,—not to say uncanny,—that I made a note of them. This is not an unusual habit with me. I often make notes of conversations, as it has been useful in my services as secretary.” “As how?” “If a caller in a social or business way had conversation with Miss Carrington, and I was present, I often made a record, in case she asked me later just what had been said.” “I see. And how do you interpret the words, ‘Henri, you are the mark I aim at?’” “I can only think that Miss Carrington was in favor of considering a marriage between herself and the Count.” “You made use of the word ‘uncanny.’ Do you imagine that Miss Carrington had any foreboding of her approaching doom?” “When I heard her say, ‘To-morrow I will be forever freed from this homely face of mine,’ and ‘to-morrow all these jewels will be yours,’ I couldn’t help thinking,—after the discovery of her death,—that she must have anticipated it.” “Did her voice sound like the despairing one of a person about to die?” “On the contrary, it sounded full of life and animation.” “Did she seem angry with the person to whom she was speaking?” “At times, yes. And, again, no. Her voice showed varying emotions as she talked on.” “Her speech was not continuous, then?” “Not at all. It was broken, and in snatches. But, remember, I could not hear all of what she said, and the other person or persons not at all.” “Did you not catch a word from the other voice?” “I cannot say. Much, in a low tone, that I could not hear clearly, might have been Miss Carrington’s voice or another’s. The door was closed, and as soon as I realized there was some one there, not Estelle, I had no thought of knocking, and I soon went away. I ought to have gone away sooner, and would have done so, but I was so amazed and puzzled I stayed on involuntarily.” “Your story, Miss Frayne, is very extraordinary. Can you suggest, from what you heard, who might have been in the room with Miss Carrington?” “I can not, nor do I wish to. I have told you what I heard, it is for you to make deductions or discoveries.” “I wish to say a word, Mr. Coroner,” and Pauline Stuart, with her dark eyes blazing, rose to her feet. “I am sorry to say this, but I must ask you to hesitate before you put too much faith in the amazing tale you have just listened to. I am sure Miss Frayne could not have heard all that nonsense! It is impossible, on the face of it, that my aunt should have received any one in her room after her maid left her. It is incredible that she should have made all those ridiculous and meaningless remarks! And it is despicable for any woman to imply or hint that Miss Carrington was receiving a gentleman caller! I am surprised that you even listened to what must be the ravings of a disordered mind!” Pauline looked at Anita like an avenging goddess. But the darts of scorn from her dark eyes were met and returned in kind from the big blue ones of the secretary. “I resent your tone and your words,” said Anita, deliberately; “but since you choose to adopt that attitude, I will go on to say what I had intended not to reveal, that I saw you coming from your aunt’s room, after the conversation I have told of took place.” “Wait a minute,” said the Coroner; “you said that immediately after hearing the alleged conversation you went at once to your room, and did not leave it again.” “Nor did I. But a few minutes later, unable to restrain my curiosity, I opened my door, and looked out. My position then commanded a full view of the hall, and I saw Miss Stuart go from her aunt’s room to her own.” Pauline looked at the speaker. Coldly her glance swept back to the Coroner, and she said: “I deny that I was in my aunt’s room after leaving it at midnight in company with Miss Frayne. But she forces me to tell that I saw her going away from it at exactly quarter past one.” “How do you fix the time so accurately?” “I was sitting in the upper hall,—it is really a sitting-room, at the bay-windowed end,—looking at the moon. I, too, had been disturbed at my aunt’s attitude, and her threats to send me away to-day, and I had gone to the hall window-seat, a favorite haunt of mine, and had sat there for a half hour or more.” “Could any one going through the hall see you?” “Probably not, as the draperies are heavy, and I was in the deep window-seat. I was thinking I would go to my room, and then I saw Miss Frayne come from my aunt’s room and go to her own.” “Are you sure she came from the room?” “She was closing the door, her hand was on the knob. She did not see me, I am sure, for I drew back in the window and watched her. And just then I heard the hall clock chime the quarter after one.” “You didn’t see Miss Frayne when she went to Miss Carrington’s room?” “No; I suppose I was then looking out of the deep window.” “Nor did you hear her?” “No, the rugs are thick and a light foot-fall makes no sound.” “What did you next do?” “I went—I went straight to my own room.” The slight hesitation told against Pauline. All through her testimony, all through her arraignment of Anita,—for it amounted to that,—she had been cool, calm and imperturbable. But now a momentary hesitation of speech, added perhaps, to the circumstantial story of Anita Frayne, caused a wave of doubt,—not enough to call suspicion,—but a questioning attitude to form in the minds of many of the audience. To whom, if not Miss Stuart, could Miss Carrington’s remarks about beauty have been addressed? It was well known that Miss Lucy adored beauty and had all her life lamented her own lack of it. This was no secret woe of the poor lady’s. To any one who would listen, she would complain of her hard lot in having all the gifts of the gods except good looks. To whom else would she say ‘To-morrow all these jewels will be yours,—if you—ah, but will you?’ And yet, after all, it did not make sense. Was it not far more likely to be a figment of Miss Frayne’s clever mind, for what purpose who might say? At any rate, their stories were contradictory and moreover were garbled. The jurymen sighed. The case had been mysterious enough before, now it was becoming inexplicable. |
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