  “There’s no use mincing matters,” said Mrs. Black, as she and Avice sat at breakfast next morning: “I was your uncle’s promised wife and I feel that it is, therefore, my right to assume the head of the household and give orders.” Avice looked at her sadly. “I have no objection to your giving orders so long as they in no way interfere with my plans or wishes. But I think it would be pleasanter for us both if you were to drop that defiant air, and let us be on a more friendly footing. I quite appreciate your position here, but you must remember that though you were engaged to my uncle you were not married to him and that——” “That makes no difference in reality! As his future wife, I have every right of a wife already, so far as this house is concerned. Indeed, it is already mine, by will as you are soon to find out.” “Very well, Mrs. Black,” said Avice, wearily, “let’s not quarrel over it. I’m sure I don’t want this house, and I am not at all afraid that my uncle’s will leaves me unprovided for. I wish the coroner would come! I long to get to work on the solution of the mystery.” “How you talk!” and Mrs. Black shuddered delicately; “I don’t see how you can bear to have to do with those awful investigations!” “Would you sit calmly down, and let the murderer go scot-free?” “Yes, rather than mix in with that awful coroner man, and worse still, detectives!” Mrs. Black brought out the word as if she had said “scorpions.” Avice was about to make an indignant reply, when the bell rang, and the card was brought in of Mr. Pinckney, a reporter. “Don’t see him,” said Mrs. Black, looking scornfully at the card. “Indeed I shall,” and Avice rose determinedly. “Why, if I don’t set him straight, there’s no telling what he’ll print!” Realizing this, Mrs. Black followed the girl into the library, and together they met the reporter. “Awfully sorry to intrude,” said a frank-faced, nice-voiced young man. “Often I wish I’d chosen any other career than that of a reporter. Downright good of you to see me, Miss Trowbridge,—isn’t it?” “Yes,” said Avice, “I am Miss Trowbridge and this is Mrs. Black.” “What can we tell you?” said Mrs. Black, acknowledging the visitor’s bow, and quickly taking the initiative. “There is so little to tell——” “Ah, yes,” and the interrupting Pinckney deliberately turned to Avice. “But you will tell me all you know, won’t you? It’s so annoying to the family to have details made up—and—we must get the news somehow.” His youthful, almost boyish air pleased Avice, who had thought reporters a crude, rather slangy lot, and she responded at once. “Indeed I will Mr. Pinckney. It’s horrid to have things told wrongly, especially a thing like this.” Her eyes filled, and the reporter looked down at his still empty notebook. “But, don’t you see, Miss Trowbridge,” he said, gently “if you tell me the details it might help in unearthing the truth,—for you don’t know who did it, do you?” “No, we don’t” broke in Eleanor Black; “you’d better not try to talk Avice, dear, you are so unstrung. Let me answer Mr. Pinckney’s questions.” “I’m not unstrung, Eleanor, at least not so much so that I can’t talk. Mr. Pinckney, if you can be of assistance in any way of solving the mystery of my uncle’s death, I shall be very grateful. The inquest will be held this morning, and I suppose,—I hope that will throw some light on it all. But just now I know of no way to look.” “Oh of course, it was a highway robber,” said Mrs. Black. “There can be no doubt of it.” “But is there any proof of it?” and the reporter looked at her inquiringly. “No doubt is not sufficient, proof positive is what we want.” “Of course, we do,” agreed Avice. “Just think, Mr. Pinckney, we know nothing but that my uncle was stabbed to death in the woods. We don’t even know why he went into the woods. Though that, of course, is probably a simple reason. He was a naturalist and went often on long tramps looking for certain specimens for his collections.” “Yes, that would explain his being there,” said Pinckney, eagerly. “Did you know he was going?” “No; on the contrary he said he would be home at five o’clock.” “He told me he might be home earlier,” said Mrs. Black, looking sorrowful. “I expected him as early as three or four, for we were going out together. You see, Mr. Trowbridge was my fiancÉ.” “Ah,” and Pinckney looked at her with increased interest. “Are there other members of this household?” “No,” replied Mrs. Black. “Just Mr. Trowbridge and myself, and our dear niece, Miss Trowbridge. We were a very happy family, and now——” Mrs. Black raised her handkerchief to her eyes, “and now, I am all alone.” “You two will not remain together, then?” the reportorial instinct cropped out. “We haven’t decided on anything of that sort yet,” broke in Avice. “Eleanor, don’t be ridiculous! Mr. Pinckney is not interested in our domestic arrangements.” “Indeed I am. The readers of The Gazette are all anxious to know the least details of your life and home.” “They must be disappointed then,” and Avice’s haughty look forbade further personal questions. “Tell me more of the—the tragedy, then. Was the weapon found?” “No, not that I know of,” and Avice looked surprised. “I never thought of it.” “No, it was not,” affirmed Mrs. Black. “The police were unable to find any weapon.” “Too bad,” frowned Pinckney; “the dear public loses a thrill.” “The public? Do they care?” and Avice started. “Rather! New Yorkers love a murder mystery if there are gruesome elements here and there.” “All I want is justice,” and Avice’s big, brown eyes turned full on Pinckney’s face. “You know about such things. Do you suppose we can trace the murderer with so little to go on?” “Can’t tell yet. May be lots of evidence forthcoming at the inquest.” At this point Mrs. Black was called from the room by a servant, and Pinckney said quickly, “Who is she? and why don’t you like her?” For some reason, Avice did not resent the man’s directness, and answered, slowly. “She is housekeeper, and was engaged to my uncle. I don’t dislike her,—not altogether.” “Is she Italian? She looks so.” “Of Italian descent, yes. Why?” “Nothing. She’s a stunner for looks, but she’s entirely able to take care of herself. I say, Miss Trowbridge, are you alone,—in this matter, I mean.” “In a way, I am. There is no one in the house but the housekeeper and myself. But Judge Hoyt, my uncle’s lawyer, looks after all business affairs for us.” “Judge Hoyt?” “Yes, Leslie Hoyt.” “You’re fixed all right that way, then. But I say, Miss Trowbridge, I don’t want you to think me impertinent, but if I can help you at all in looking about,—investigating, you know,——” “Do you mean detecting?” “Yes, in a small way. I’ve opportunities to go into the world and inquire into things that are a sealed book to you. But I suppose you’ll have detectives, and all that. And any way, it’s too soon to think about it. But remember, if you want any sleuthing done,—on the side, in an amateur way I’d be awfully glad to help you out.” “That’s kind of you Mr. Pinckney, and I’ll be glad to take advantage of your offer. But do you have to put everything in your paper?” “Just about. Oh, of course, if I unearth anything of importance,—like a clue, you know, I’d tell the police first but I’d want the scoop for ours.” “How can there be any clues when it happened in the lonely woods? I thought clues were little things picked up off the floor, or found in people’s pockets.” “Well, mightn’t they pick up little things off the ground? Or find them in your uncle’s pockets?” “Do you think they will? Mr. Pinckney, you’ve no idea how I want to find the murderer! I never knew before that I had so much revenge in my nature, but I feel now I could devote my whole life, if need be, to tracking down that villain! I loved my uncle almost like a father. Most girls, I suppose, would be so broken up with grief that they couldn’t talk like this, but I seem to find the only comfort in the thought of avenging this horrible deed!” “Don’t bank on it too much, Miss Trowbridge. They say only one murderer in six is convicted, and in only a small fraction of murders is anybody even suspected of the crime. But this case will be ferreted out, I’m sure, both because of the prominence of your uncle, and the fact that there is money enough to hire the best talent, if desired.” “Indeed it is desired! I shall, of course, inherit much of my uncle’s fortune, and I would spend every penny rather than fail in the search!” “You won’t mind my reporting this conversation, will you, Miss Trowbridge? I’m here for a story, you know,——” “Oh, must you put me in the paper? Please don’t!” “I won’t put anything you won’t like. But our readers want you. You know, all the men want now-a-days is a graft yarn, and the women, some inside society gos—information.” Avice would have made further objection to newspaper publicity, but people began to arrive, and, too, Pinckney was content to leave off conversation at that point. He was young, and enthusiastic in his chosen career. Moreover, he was canny and clever. He had further chat with Mrs. Black, and he managed to get a few words with the servants. And somehow, by hook or crook, he secured photographs of both women, and of the house, as well as of the victim of the tragedy himself. Aside from reportorial talent, Pinckney had a taste for detective work. He was, or fancied himself, the stuff of which story-book detectives are made, and he was more than glad to have the press assignment of this case, which might give him wide range for his powers of deduction. When Judge Hoyt arrived, he at once sought out Avice, and his fine, impassive face grew infinitely gentle as he greeted the sad-eyed girl. In her black gown, she looked older, and her pale cheeks and drawn countenance told of a sleepless night. “How are you dear?” asked Hoyt, taking her hands in his. “I’ve been so anxious about you.” “I’m all right,” and Avice tried to smile bravely. “But I’m glad you’ve come. I feel so alone and responsible—Mr. Pinckney says I have a splendid lawyer—but I don’t see anything for a lawyer to do.” “There may be. I believe the police have made quite a few discoveries, though I know nothing definite. Of course, all my legal powers are at your disposal, but I too, doubt if the criminal is ever apprehended.” “Oh, don’t say that! We must find him! You will, won’t you?” “I’ll do my best Avice. But I am a lawyer, not a detective, you know.” “But you’re a judge, and you have been district attorney, and you’re the greatest criminal lawyer in the state!” “Yes, but a criminal lawyer must have a criminal to convict. Rest assured if the criminal is found, he shall have full punishment.” “Of course, but I want help to find him. I want to employ detectives and——” “And so you shall, but wait Avice, until the inquest is over. That may bring developments. I wish I had been here in New York yesterday.” “What could you have done?” “Perhaps nothing to prevent or help, but I would have been at your uncle’s office during the day, and I would have known of his plans. Who is this Pinckney you mentioned?” “A reporter for The Daily Gazette? I didn’t want to see him at first, but I’m glad I did. He’s going to help me detect.” “Avice, dear, ‘detecting’ as you call it, isn’t a casual thing, to be done by anybody. It’s a trade, a profession——” “Yes, I know. But Mr. Pinckney knows something of it, and he is very kind.” “When a reporter is kind, it’s only for his personal benefit. The moment crime is committed, Avice, the reporters are on the job, and they never let go of it, until all suspects are freed or sentenced. But what they learn by their ‘detection’ is only for their paper; it is rarely given in testimony, or turned to real account.” “Mr. Pinckney will help me, I’m sure,” Avice persisted. “And besides, he was in college with Mr. Landon, uncle’s nephew out West.” “Landon? The chap you used to be in love with?” and Judge Hoyt made a wry face. “In love! Nonsense! I’m as much in love with him now as I ever was.” “And how much is that?” “It’s so long since I’ve seen him, I’ve forgotten,” and Avice, who couldn’t help an occasional flash of her innate coquetry, smiled up into the stern face regarding her. “Beg pardon, Miss Avice,” said Stryker, the butler, coming toward them; “but do you want to be in the drawing-room for the—the inquest, or upstairs?” “I want to be right near the coroner and the jury. I want to know everything that goes on. Shall we go in there now, Leslie?” “Yes, in a moment. What do you know of Mr. Trowbridge’s death, Stryker?” “Me, Judge Hoyt? Nothing,—nothing at all, sir. How should I?” “I don’t know, I’m sure. I merely asked. Where were you yesterday afternoon, Stryker?” “It was my day off, sir. I was out all afternoon.” “Oh, all right. Don’t take my question too seriously.” Hoyt spoke kindly, for the butler showed considerable agitation. He started to say something, paused, stammered, and finally burst out with, “I didn’t kill him, Sir!” “Good Lord, Stryker, nobody thought you did! But don’t show such a scared face to the coroner when he questions you, or he may think all sorts of things.” “What c—could he think?” “Nothing that I know of. By the way, Stryker, now that Mr. Trowbridge is gone, you can take out that insurance policy, can’t you?” “Oh, Mr. Hoyt, don’t speak of such things now!” and the old butler fairly wrung his hands. “All right, I won’t. But when you want to talk it over, come to me. Is that your Pinckney, Avice, talking to Mrs. Black?” “Yes; why, he’s interviewing her! See his notebook. She is telling him lots!” “He’s getting what they call a ‘sob story.’ She’s working on his sympathies by pathetic tales of her loss. How does she treat you? All right?” “Yes, except that she wants to be head of the house, and——” “That will settle itself. You won’t stay here, dear, you will come to me. We will——” “Please don’t talk like that now. I can’t bear it.” Avice’s brave, determined air forsook her, and with quivering lip, she looked imploringly at the man who gazed passionately into her troubled eyes. “Forgive me, dear, I should have known better. But when I think of you, here, alone, save for a woman who is nothing to you, I want to carry you off where I can protect you from all annoyance or trouble.” “I know you do, and I ought to feel more grateful, but I can’t seem to think of anything just now but——” “Of course, my darling, I understand, and it is all right. Only tell me what you want and I am at your orders, always and forever.” “Then come with me to the other room, stay by me, and tell me what things mean, when I don’t understand. Listen, too, yourself, to everything, so you’ll know just what to do when the police fail.” “Why are you so sure they will fail?” “Because the case is all so mysterious. Because it will take a clever and skilled brain to find my uncle’s murderer.” Avice spoke in low, intense tones, as if she were stirred to the very soul by her harrowing anxiety. “Avice,” said Hoyt, suddenly, “have you any suspicion of anybody—anybody at all?” “No! oh, no! How could I have?” “But have you?” Hoyt scanned her face closely, noting the quickly dropped eyelids and firm, set mouth. “Not a suspicion—oh, no!” “A premonition, then? A vague idea of any way to look?” “No—no. No, I haven’t.” The first negative was hesitating, the second, positive and decided. It was as if she had instantly made up her mind to say nothing more. Leslie Hoyt looked at her, and then with a gentle smile, as of one humoring a child, he said: “All right, dear. Come now with me.” And together, they went to listen to the inquest held to determine the circumstances of the death of Rowland Trowbridge. |
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