  “Look here, Esther,” said old Salt to his wife, “that’s a mighty curious case over at Waring’s.” “How you do talk! I should think that to you and me, knowing and loving John Waring as we did, you’d have no doings with the curious part of it! As for me, I don’t care who killed him. He’s dead, isn’t he? It can’t bring him back to life to hang his murderer. And to my mind it’s heathenish—all this detectiving and evidencing—or whatever they call it. Whom do they suspect now? You?” Adams looked at his wife with a mild reproach. “Woman all over! No sense of justice, no righteous indignation. Don’t you know the murderer must be found and punished? That is if it was a murder.” “Of course it was! That blessed man never killed himself! And he about to marry Emily Bates—a lady, if ever there was one!” “Well, now you listen to me, Esther, and whatever you do, don’t go babbling about this. They say the Jap, who vamoosed from the Waring house, made a line of foot tracks in the snow. The snow’s crusted over, you know, and those footprints are about as clear now as when they were made.” “Huh! footprints! Corinth is full of footprints.” “Yes, but these—listen, Esther—these lead straight from the Waring house, over to this house. And back again.” “How can they?” Mrs. Adams looked mystified. “That Japanese didn’t come over here.” “You can’t say that he didn’t. And, look here, Esther, where’s Miss Austin? What’s she doing?” “Miss Austin? She’s in her room. She hasn’t been quite up to the mark for a day or two, and she’s had her meals upstairs.” “What’s the matter with her?” “A slight cold, she says. I can’t make her out, Salt. What’s she doing here, anyway?” “Don’t pester her, my dear. How you and Bascom do love to pick at that girl! Why does she have to do anything?” “It’s queer, though. And I hate a mystery.” “Well, she is one—I grant you that. Have you told her about Doctor Waring? Though I daresay it wouldn’t interest her.” “And I daresay it would! Why, that girl cut his picture out of the paper, and she did have one stuck up on her dresser, till I looked at it sort of sharp like, and she put it away.” “Poor child! Can’t even have a newspaper cutting, if she wants it! You’re a tyrant, Esther! Don’t you ever try to boss me like that!” The good-natured smile that passed between them, proved the unlikelihood of this, and Old Salt went on. “I wish you’d tell her, wife, about the tragedy. Seems like she ought to know.” Mrs. Adams stared at him. “I’ll tell her, as a matter of course, but I don’t know why you’re so anxious about it.” “Good morning, Miss Austin,” the good lady said, soon after, “better this morning?” “Yes, thank you. My cold is almost entirely well.” The girl was sitting by the window, in an easy chair. She had on a Japanese dressing gown of quilted silk, embroidered with chrysanthemums, and was listlessly gazing out across the snow covered field opposite. The Adams house was on the outskirts of the little town, and separated by a wide field from the Waring place. “Heard the news about Doctor Waring?” Mrs. Adams said, in a casual tone, but watching the girl closely. “No; what is it?” The words were simple, and the voice steady, but Miss Austin’s hands clutched the arms of the chair, and her face turned perfectly white. “Why, what ails you? You don’t know the man, do you?” “I—I heard him lecture, you know. Tell me—what is the—the news?” “He’s dead.” Mrs. Adams spoke bluntly on purpose. She had felt in a vague way, that this strange person, this Miss Mystery, had more interest in Doctor Waring than she admitted, and the landlady was determined to find out. To her own satisfaction she did find out, for the girl almost fainted. She didn’t quite lose consciousness, indeed it was not so much a faint as such a desperate effort to regain her poise, that it unnerved her. “Now, now, Miss Austin, why do you take it so hard? He was a stranger to you, wasn’t he?” “Yes—yes, of course he was.” “Why are you so disturbed then?” “He was such a—such a fine man—” the girl’s stifled sobs impeded her speech. “Well, somebody killed him.” At that, Miss Austin seemed turned to stone. “Killed him!” she whispered, in accent of terror. “Yes—or else he killed himself—they don’t feel sure.” Mrs. Adams, once embarked on the narrative, told all she knew of the circumstances, and in the exciting recital, almost forgot to watch the effect of the tale on her listener. But this effect was not entirely unnoted. At the partly open door, Old Salt Adams, stood, eavesdropping, but with a kindly, anxious look on his face, that boded no ill to any one. And he noticed that the girl’s attention was wandering. She was pitifully white, her face drawn and scared, and soon she exclaimed, with a burst of nervous fury, “Stop! please stop! Leave the room, won’t you?” It was not a command but an agonized entreaty. Mrs. Adams fairly jumped, and alarmed as well as offended, she rose and started for the door, only to meet her husband entering. “Go downstairs, Esther,” he said, gravely, “I want to speak to Miss Austin myself.” Staring at one then at the other, and utterly routed by this unbelievable turn of affairs, Mrs. Adams went. Old Salt closed the room door, and turned to the trembling girl. “Miss Austin,” he said kindly, “I like you, I want to help you—but I must ask you to explain yourself a little. The people in my house call you Miss Mystery. Why are you here? Why are you in Corinth at all?” For a moment the girl seemed about to respond to his kindly, gentle attitude and address. Then, something stayed her, and she let her lovely face harden to a stony blankness, as she replied, “It is a bit intrusive, but I’ve no reason not to tell. I am an art student, and I came here to paint New England winter scenery.” “Have you done much?” “I haven’t been here quite a week yet—and I’ve been picking out available bits—and for two days I’ve had a cold.” “How did you get cold?” The voice was kind but it had a definite note, as if desirous of an accurate answer. Miss Mystery looked at him. “How does any one get cold?” she said, trying to smile; “perhaps sitting in a draught—perhaps by means of a germ. It is almost well now.” “Perhaps by walking in the snow, and getting one’s feet wet,” Mr. Adams suggested, and the girl turned frightened eyes on him. “Don’t,” she breathed; “Mr. Adams, don’t!” Her voice was piteous her eyes implored him to stop torturing her. “Why, what’s the harm in my saying that?” he went on, inexorably. “You wouldn’t go anywhere that you wouldn’t want known—would you—Miss Mystery?” He spoke the last two words in a meaning way, and the great dark eyes faced him with the look of a stag at bay. Then again, by a desperate effort the girl recovered herself, and said, coldly, “Please speak plainly, Mr. Adams. Is there a special meaning in your words?” “There is, Miss Austin. Perhaps I have no right to ask you why—but I do ask you if you went over to Doctor Waring’s house, late in the evening—night before last?” “Sunday night, do you mean?” Miss Mystery controlled her voice, but her hands were clenched and her foot tapped the floor in her stifled excitement. “Yes, Sunday night.” “No; of course I did not go over there at night. I was there in the afternoon, with Mrs. Bates and Mr. Payne.” “I know that. And you then met Doctor Waring for the first time?” “For the first time,” she spoke with downcast face. “The first time in your life?” “The first time in my life,” but if ever a statement carried its own denial that one seemed to. The long dark lashes fell on the white cheeks. The pale lips quivered, and if Anita Austin had been uttering deepest perjury she could have shown no more convincing evidence of falsehood. Yet old Salt looked at her benevolently. She was so young, so small, so alone—and so mysterious. “I can’t make you out,” he shook his head. “But I’m for you, Miss Austin. That is,” he hedged, “unless I find out something definite against you. I feel I ought to tell you, that you’ve enemies—yes,” as the girl looked up surprised, “you’ve made enemies in this house. Small wonder—the way you’ve acted! Now, why can’t you be chummy and sociable like?” “Chummy? Sociable? With whom?” “With all the boarders. There’s young Lockwood now—and there’s young Tyler—” “Yes, yes, I know. I will—Mr. Adams—I will try to be more sociable. Now—as to—to Doctor Waring—why did he kill himself?” Old Salt eyed her narrowly. “We don’t know that he did,” he began. “But Mrs. Adams told me all the details”—she shuddered, “and if that room he was in was so securely locked that they had to break in, how could it be the work of—of another?” “Well, Miss Austin, as they found a bad wound in the man’s neck, just under his right ear, a wound that produced instant unconsciousness and almost instant death, and as no weapon of any sort could be found in the room, how could it have been suicide?” “Which would you rather think it?” the strange girl asked, looking gravely at him. “Well, to me—I’m an old-fashioned chap—suicide always suggests cowardice, and Doc Waring was no coward, that I’ll swear!” “No, he was not—” “How do you know?” Miss Mystery started at the sudden question. “I heard him lecture, you know,” she returned; “and, too, I saw him in his home—Sunday afternoon—and he seemed a fine man—a fine man.” “Well, Miss Austin,” Old Salt rose to go, “I’m free to confess you’re a mystery to me. I consider myself a fair judge of men—yes, and of women, but when a slip of a girl like you acts so strange, I can’t make it out. Now, I happen to know—” He paused at the panic-stricken look on her face, and lamely concluded; “Never mind—I won’t tell.” With which cryptic remark he went away. “Well, what you been saying to her?” demanded his aggrieved spouse, as the Adamses met in their own little sitting-room. “Why, nothing,” Old Salt replied, and his troubled eyes looked at her pleadingly. “I don’t think she’s wrong, Esther.” “Well, I do. And maybe a whole lot wrong. Why, Saltonstall, Miss Bascom says she saw Miss Austin traipsing across the field late Sunday night.” “She didn’t! I don’t believe a word of it! She’s a meddling old maid—a snooping busybody!” “There, now, you carry on like that because you’re afraid we will discover something wrong about Miss Mystery.” “Look here, Esther,” Adams spoke sternly; “you remember she’s a young girl, without anybody to stand up for her, hereabouts. Now, you know what a bobbery a few words can kick up. And we don’t want that poor child’s name touched by a breath of idle gossip that isn’t true. I don’t believe Liza Bascom saw her out on Sunday night! I don’t even believe she thought she did!” “Well, I believe it. Liza Bascom’s no fool—” “She’s worse, she’s a knave! And she hates little Austin, and she’d say anything, true or false, to harm the girl.” “But, Salt, she says she saw Miss Austin, all in her fur coat and cap going cross lots to the Waring house Sunday evening—late.” “Can she prove it?” “I don’t know about that. But she saw her.” “How does she know it was Miss Austin? It might have been somebody who looked like her.” “You know those footprints.” “The Jap’s?” “You can’t say they’re the Jap’s. Miss Bascom says they’re the Austin girl’s.” “Esther!” Old Saltonstall Adams rose in his wrath, “you ought to be ashamed of yourself to let that girl’s name get into the Waring matter at all. Even if she did go out Sunday night, if Miss Bascom did see her, you keep still about it. If that girl’s wrong, it’ll be discovered without our help. If she isn’t, we must not be the ones to bring her into notice.” “She couldn’t be—be implicated—could she, Salt?” “No!” he thundered. “Esther, you astound me. That Bascom woman has turned your brain. She’s a viper, that’s what she is!” He stormed out of the room, and getting into his great coat, tramped down to the village. Gordon Lockwood was in his room. This was much to the annoyance of Callie, the impatient chambermaid, who wanted to get her work done. Lockwood was himself impatient to get over to the Waring house, for he had much to do with the mass of incoming mail and the necessary interviews with reporters and other callers. Yet he tarried, in his pleasant bedroom at Mrs. Adams’, his door securely locked, and his own attitude one of stupefaction. For the hundredth time he reread the crumpled paper that he had taken from the study waste-basket under the very nose of Detective Morton. Had that sleuth been a little more worthy of his profession he never would have allowed the bare-faced theft. And now that Lockwood had it he scarce knew what to do with it. And truly it was an astonishing missive. For it read thus: My darling Anita: At the first glance of your brown eyes this afternoon, love was born in my heart. Life is worth living—with you in the world! And yet— That was all. The unfinished letter had been crumpled into a ball and thrown in the basket. Had another been started—and completed? Had Anita Austin received it—and was that why she kept to her room for two days? Was she a—he hated the word! a vamp? Had she secretly become acquainted with John Waring during her presence in Corinth, and had so charmed him that he wrote to her thus? Or, had they known each other before? What a mystery! There was not the slightest doubt of the writing. Lockwood knew it as well as he knew his own. And on top of all the other scraps in the waste-basket it must have been the last missive the dead man wrote—or, rather the last he threw away. This meant he had been writing it on the Sunday evening. Then, Lockwood reasoned, knowing the routine, if he had written another, which he completed and addressed, it would, in natural course, have been put with the letters for the mail, and would have been posted by Ito that next morning. What an oversight, never to have asked Ito about that matter. It was an inviolable custom for the butler to take all letters laid on a certain small table, and put them in the pillar box, early in the morning. Had Ito done this? It must be inquired into. But far more absorbing was the actual letter before him. How could it be possible that John Waring, the dignified scholar, the confirmed bachelor, should have loved this mystery girl? Yet, even as he formulated the question, Gordon Lockwood knew the answer. He knew that from his own point of view it would not be impossible or even difficult for any man with two eyes in his head to love that fascinating, enchanting personality. And as he pondered, he knew that he loved her himself. Yes, had loved her almost from the moment he first saw her. Certainly from the time he sat behind her at the lecture, and counted the queer little ball fringes in the back of her dainty gown. Those fringes! Lockwood gave a groan as a sudden thought came to him. He jumped up, and with a determined air, set about burning the inexplicable letter that John Waring had written and thrown away. In the empty fireplace of the old-fashioned room, Lockwood touched a match to the sheet and burned it to an ash. Then he went over to the Waring house. It was an hour or so later that Callie reported to Miss Bascom. “Queer goin’s on,” the girl said, rolling her eyes at her eager listener, “Mr. Lockwood, now, he burnt some papers, and Miss Austin, too, she burnt some papers.” “What’s queer about that?” snapped Miss Bascom, who had hoped for something more sensational. “Well, it’s sorta strange they’re both burnin’ paper at the same time. And both so sly about it. Mr. Lockwood he kep’ lookin’ back at the fireplace as he went outa the door, and Miss Austin, she jumped like she was shot, when I come in suddenly an’ found her stoopin’ over the fireplace. An’ too, Miss Bascom, whatever else she burnt, she burnt that picture she had of Doctor Waring.” “Did she have his picture?” “Yep, one Mr. Lockwood guv her, after Nora carried off the one she cut out of a paper.” “What in the world did that girl want of Doctor Waring’s picture?” “I dunno, ma’am. What they call hero-worship, I guess. Just like I’ve got some several pictures of Harold Massinger, that man who plays Caveman in the Movies! My, but he’s handsome!” “And so Miss Austin burned a photograph of John Waring?” “Yes, ma’am. And you know they’re kinda hard to burn. Anyways, she was a kneelin’ by the fireplace an’ the picture was smokin’ like everything.” “‘Lemme help you miss,’ I says, as polite as could be—“and watcha think, she snatched back, and says, ‘You lemme lone. Get outahere!’ or somethin’ like that. Oh, she was mad all right.” “She has a high temper, hasn’t she?” “Yes’m, there’s no denyin’ she has. Then again, she’s sweet as pie, and nice an’ gentle. She’s a queer makeup, I will say.” “There, Callie, that will do; don’t gossip,” and Miss Bascom, sure she had learned all the maid had to tell, went downstairs to tell it to Mrs. Adams. The landlady seemed less receptive than usual, being still mindful of her husband’s admonitions. But Miss Bascom’s story of the burnt photograph roused her curiosity to highest pitch. “There’s something queer about that girl,” Mrs. Adams opined, and the other more than agreed. “Let’s go up and talk to her,” Miss Bascom suggested, and after a moment’s hesitation, Mrs. Adams went. The landlady tapped lightly at the door, but there was no response. “Go right in,” the other whispered, and go in they did. Miss Mystery lay on the couch, her eyes closed, her cheeks still wet with tears. She did not move, and after a moment’s glance to assure herself the girl was sound asleep, Miss Bascom audaciously opened one of the small top drawers of the dresser. Mrs. Adams gasped, and frantically made motions of remonstrance, but swiftly fingering among the veils and handkerchiefs, Miss Bascom drew out a large roll of bills, held by an elastic band. Anita Austin’s eyes flew open, and after one staring glance at the intrusive woman, she jumped from the couch and flew at her like a small but very active tiger. “How dare you!” she cried, snatching the money from Miss Bascom’s hand, even as that elated person was unrolling it. And from inside the roll, down on the painted floor, fell a ruby stickpin. |
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