  The funeral services of John Waring were solemn and impressive. No reference was made to the manner of his taking-off, save to call it mysterious, and the encomiums heaped upon him by the clergy and the college faculty were as sincere as they were well-deserved. There were two members of the great audience who were looked at with curiosity by many. One of these was Miss Mystery, the girl who, it was vaguely rumored was in some way connected with the tragedy. To look at her, this seemed impossible, for a sweeter face or a gentler manner could scarce be imagined. Anita Austin sat near the front, on one of the side aisles. She wore a gown of taupe-colored duvetyn, and a velvet toque of the same color. Her olive face was pale, and now and then her small white teeth bit into her scarlet lower lip, as if she were keeping her self-control only by determined effort. A close observer might note that she paid no heed to the utterance of the able men who gave tribute to John Waring’s character, but her troubled eyes rested on the flower-covered casket, and the rising tears overflowed as she stifled an occasional sob. And then, fairly clenching her hands in a determination to show no emotion, this strange girl would straighten up, and stare blankly ahead of her as if in utter oblivion of the scene. Directly behind her was Helen Peyton, who had chosen that place with the intention of watching Miss Mystery. Mrs. Peyton was by her daughter’s side, but her whole attention was on the funeral services, and she thought of little else. Not far off was Gordon Lockwood, and with him were Mrs. Bates and her nephew, Pinckney Payne. Of this trio only the secretary let his gaze wander now and then to the sad little face that was rapidly becoming the dearest thing in life to him. As the church filled, and the flower-scented atmosphere grew oppressive, Miss Austin let her coat fall from her shoulders, and Lockwood noted with a start that she wore the same gown she had worn to the lecture at which he first saw her. Again he counted the queer little buttons that edged the sailor collar. He shook his head, and a great feeling of compassion filled his heart. “Poor child,” he said to himself, “what does it all mean?” The other magnet for strangers’ eyes was Maurice Trask, the relative of John Waring, who had come from his home in St. Louis, to take possession of his inheritance. For, in the absence of any will, he had proved himself the next of kin, and had gladly, even eagerly, taken the reins of government of the affairs and home of the dead man. He was the son of John Waring’s cousin, and though the two men had never met, the credentials and records brought by Maurice Trask left no possible doubt as to his heirship. Trask was not prepossessing of appearance, though he was well-mannered and moderately well-dressed. His lack was that of sophistication, and he seemed ignorant of the finer conventions of life. He was what is known as a self-made man, and men of home manufacture require some sterling qualities to start with if they are to turn out a satisfactory product. These qualities Trask didn’t have, and a first glance at the sharp-featured face gave an impression of greed and shrewdness. There was also a slight air of bravado, which was quite evidently caused by an uneasy feeling of inferiority. He seemed to say, “I am as good as you are,” because his conviction of that fact needed some such assertion to bolster it up. In his seat as chief mourner, he was decorum itself. His black garb was very black, and if it betrayed a provincial cut or fit, such an effect was more in keeping with the man than correct apparel would have been. His grief might have seemed a trifle ostentatious to one who remembered he had never seen his cousin, but on the whole Maurice Trask was accepted by those whose curiosity led to criticism, as a satisfactory heir to the Waring estate. Nor was this an inconsiderable matter, for John Waring, beside his profession, had written several successful books, and possessed in all a goodly fortune. Moreover, there was no mystery about Trask. His life was an open book, the lawyers had said; his family tree was of correct record and his claim to the estate clear and true. While as to that minx, Miss Mystery, nobody knew or could find out where she came from, what she was doing in Corinth, or who she was, anyway. Clearly she was mixed up with Doctor Waring in some unconventional way—that is, if the reports were true that she visited him in his study without the knowledge of his household. No shadow of blame was attached to John Waring for this—although it would seem that the man was old and wise enough to ward off an attack from such a small vampire. “That’s what she is,” Helen Peyton concluded, to herself, as she mused on the girl who sat in front of her. “She just plain vamped poor Doctor Waring—and she got into the study—and, now, I can prove it!” After the funeral, the chief mourners went back to the Waring home to discuss matters. Mrs. Peyton had tea served in the living-room, for all who came, and many neighbors, drawn by curiosity, accepted her hospitality. Trask, rubbing his hands involuntarily, slipped easily into his new rÔle of host, and rather overdid his part. “Yes,” he would say, “yes, yes. I learned from the addresses how fine a man my cousin was—yes, yes, a noble character. Now, I can’t expect to take his place in your community all at once—but I’ll get there! I’ll get there! And you’ll all help me, won’t you?” he beamed on them. “Yes, yes, you’ll all help me to become one of the first citizens of Corinth—one of the first citizens of your lovely, tree-decked town. Yes, yes.” Plate and cup in hand, he moved around among his guests, a little awkwardly but full of amiability and good cheer. His sentiment was quite evidently, “the king is dead; long live the king,” and he wanted to get settled on his throne at once. But the cousin of John Waring had another side to him. This was shown when, later on, he met a few people in the study. Cray was there, by invitation, and Morton also. Lockwood and the two Peytons. “Just a few words at the outset,” Trask began, and he was noticeably more at ease in this executive session than he had been in the social atmosphere. “I want to maintain this household, for a time at least, as I find it. I shall be glad, Mrs. Peyton, if you will continue to keep house for me, and I should like you, Mr. Lockwood, to remain as secretary, if you are willing. There is, of course, much to be done in settling the estate, and your knowledge would be invaluable. Also, if you will, Mrs. Peyton, I’d like you to engage servants—or keep the ones you have. In fact, please look after the house matters entirely. For, here is what I want to do first. Find the man who killed my cousin. I never shall feel right in taking and using his home and his money unless I do everything in my power to discover his murderer.” “It may be a case of suicide,” suggested Attorney Cray, who was narrowly watching the speaker. “No-sir-ee! First place, as near as I can figure it out, my cousin was not the man to take his own life. Also, he was on the eve of taking a fine position as College President—also he was about to marry a beautiful lady. Why worry? And too—and this is to me the strongest argument against the suicide theory—I’ve read lots of detective stories—you needn’t sniff, Mr. Cray, those stories are often founded on fact—and many of them hinge on the mystery of a sealed room. Often a book starts out with a situation just like this; man found dead. Room locked up. No weapon about. Murder or suicide? And, listen here; invariably the solution is murder. Yes, sir—invariably! Why? ’Cause suicide is a mighty scarce article. You don’t find Human Nature putting an end to itself very often. That is, not worthwhile Human Nature. Your suicides are weak men, down and outers, ignorant, half-baked chaps. Not fine, upstanding men such as John Waring was. You know that, Mr. Cray?” “Yes,” the attorney nodded. “That’s certainly so, Mr. Trask. And, anyway, if you’re going to make investigations, you have to start on the theory of murder.” “Just that exactly,” Trask agreed. “Then if we run up against proof—actual proof of suicide, why then, we know where we’re at.” Lockwood looked at Trask and listened to him with interest. He was a new type to the secretary, who with all his knowledge of characterization couldn’t quite place him. At first, Lockwood had felt an instinctive dislike, the newcomer had been so patently pleased with his inheritance, and so evidently insincere in his mourning. But this sensible, straightforward insistence on avenging his cousin’s murder—if it were murder—raised Trask in Lockwood’s estimation, and he concluded to remain as secretary, for a time, at least. “You have the case in charge, Mr. Cray,” Trask went on, “and I want you to push it—push it, sir. Get help if you want—get some hifalutin detective, if that’s the proper caper—but, get results. Results, that’s what I’m after! Here’s my idea. Get busy, and do all you can as quick as you can. Don’t dawdle. Put things through. And then—if you can’t find the criminal, after due effort, then, we’ll give up the hunt. That’s my idea. Do all you can—and then quit.” “Very well, Mr. Trask,” Cray replied; “I understand, and I’ll do as you say. When you have the time to devote to it, I’ll give you a history of the case.” “The time is now, Mr. Cray. And your history must be put in a nutshell. The circumstances of John Waring’s death, I know. Also, I know whom I suspect as the murderer. So tell me your decisions to date.” “I fear we have made no decision, Mr. Trask. As a matter of fact the evidence to date points in a most painful direction.” “What! You’re deterred from justice because evidence points in a painful direction! My stars, Cray! is that the way you detect in New England!” “But evidence may be false, and it is unwise to accuse without certainty—” “I have some certain evidence,” said Helen Peyton, and all turned to look at the girl, who spoke hesitatingly and in a low tone. “Yes, I wouldn’t tell it—but—I think I ought to. I just found it out today.” “Of course you must tell it, Miss Peyton,” Trask said, dictatorially. “Out with it!” “Well,” Helen spoke to Cray, “you know Mr. Lockwood rubbed off some marks from this chair the morning after—after we found Doctor Waring.” “Yes, they were without doubt indicative marks. What do you know about them?” Cray looked at her earnestly, for he had great interest in that act of the secretary’s. “They were the marks made by the buttons on the back of the dress Miss Austin wore today.” For a moment Gordon Lockwood’s calm almost deserted him. It was but a fleeting instant, yet Cray’s sharp eyes caught the look of utter dismay that crossed the impassive face of the secretary. Immediately the usual hauteur returned and the grave eyes met Cray’s without a tremor. “How do you know?” Cray was all alertness. “I sat behind her at the funeral. She took off her coat and I couldn’t help noticing a certain arrangement of buttons. It struck me, because I noticed the marks on the chair back, and they were just the same design.” “Absurd,” Lockwood said, quietly, but with a deep scorn in his tone. “As if you could identify the trimming on a lady’s gown!” “But I did,” Helen persisted, spurred by Lockwood’s manner. “I noticed it on the chair, a clear pattern of the trimming of the collar, and two rows down the back. And then I saw Mr. Lockwood rub it off of the chairback with utmost care. And today, when I saw Miss Austin’s dress, I recognized it at once. She was here that night—Mr. Lockwood knew it—and he erased the marks—” “Helen, don’t be too ridiculous!” Lockwood spoke now in a soft drawl, that made Helen flush with anger. “I’m not ridiculous! Am I, Mr. Cray? It’s evidence, isn’t it? It proves that girl was here—doesn’t it? And Gordon did rub it off—Ito saw him too, and I saw him. He was rubbing the chair when I came to call him to breakfast—he can’t deny it!” “I do deny it,” Lockwood said, quietly. “Miss Peyton is excited and doesn’t remember accurately.” “Nothing of the sort!” blazed Helen. “It’s all true. Gordon won’t admit it because—” “Helen, hush!” Gordon’s look stopped her at once. “Don’t say things you’ll regret.” “But I don’t regret them,” put in Cray. “All this is important. Mr. Lockwood, do you deny obliterating these marks in question?” “Of course I do,” Lockwood smiled slightly. “If I was moving the chair or touching it, when Miss Peyton came to call me to breakfast I don’t remember it. At any rate, it was with no intention of removing evidence.” Gordon Lockwood told these falsehoods with as calm an air as he would have shown in making truthful statements. He was not only deeply in love with Anita Austin, but he did not and would not believe her guilty of crime, or of any connection with a crime. Wherefore, he was ready and willing to tell any number of lies to save or shield her. And from his manner none could guess he was saying other than absolute truth. “But look here,” spoke up Maurice Trask. “This won’t do, you know. Are you people accusing a girl of Doctor Waring’s murder? A girl!” “Not accusation yet,” Cray told him, “but we want to know more about the young lady in question. In fact, she’s been dubbed Miss Mystery, because so little is known about her.” “Miss Mystery, eh? And she came here to see the Doctor the night he died?” “She did not!” Lockwood asserted, calmly. “Had she done so, I should have known it.” “Of course you would,” Trask looked at him shrewdly. “Of course. But the impress of her clothing was left on the chairback? Is that it?” “That’s it,” said Helen, sharply. “And when forty-leven other things prove her presence here that evening, I don’t know why Mr. Lockwood so positively denies it. He must have a deep interest in the young lady!” Helen’s spitefulness was undisguised, and her mother looked pained and regretful. Both these women had hoped that Gordon Lockwood’s affections might turn toward Helen, and the older one realized that such speeches as this would in no way further their plans. But Helen was thoroughly jealous of Miss Mystery, for more reasons than one, and she let her unbridled tongue expose her feelings. Cray knew all this, and therefore took Helen’s statements with a grain of salt. And yet, he soliloquized, she would scarcely make up that rigmarole of the dress trimming. He fancied it was true. And why shouldn’t it be? The evidence of Anita Austin’s presence in John Waring’s study that fatal night was far too strong to be ignored. Moreover, the girl’s possession of the money and the ruby pin had yet to be satisfactorily explained. It was unthinkable that anyone should have stolen these things and “planted” them in Miss Austin’s bureau drawer! “I’d like to see this young woman,” said Trask, suddenly. “I’m going over to see her now, come along,” invited Cray, who was a little impressed by the perspicuity of this stranger. “I’m going, too,” declared Helen Peyton, and as Lockwood couldn’t keep away, they all went over to the Adams house. In the cosy sitting-room they congregated, and Mrs. Adams went upstairs to summon Anita. She found the room locked. When, in response to a repeated summons, the door was opened, Mrs. Adams faced a tearful, sad-faced girl, who asked indifferently what was wanted. “You’ll have to come down stairs,” the landlady said; “Mr. Cray is there, and—and some others. They want to see you.” “I won’t go down. I don’t want to see anybody.” “I guess you’ll have to.” Mrs. Adams spoke a little crisply. “It’s a—a summons. You’ve got to come.” “Oh.” Miss Austin’s manner changed. “Well, I will, then. Wait till I bathe my face.” Mrs. Adams came in, closed the door and waited. She felt sorry for Miss Mystery, but she also felt suspicious of her. Perhaps the mystery would now be cleared up. The good woman was about to speak kindly to her strange boarder but as she watched, she lost the desire to help her. For, to Mrs. Adams’ primitive notions, the girl was doing dreadful things. Having bathed her tear-stained face, Miss Mystery proceeded to powder it lightly, and, horror of horrors, she added the merest flick of rouge to her pale cheeks. And not content with such baseness she stooped to further degradation and touched her pale lips with some heathenish contraption that made them just a little redder! No, Mrs. Adams had no sympathy for a girl who would do such awful things, and she waited in a grim and stony silence. Then Miss Mystery fluffed out her pretty dark hair a little more over her ears, settled her sailor collar, with its row of tiny buttons for trimming, and with a critical glance at her shoes, signified her readiness to go down stairs. Still in disapproving silence, Mrs. Adams marched by her side, and they went together to face the visitors. The attitude of the girl as she entered the room was a triumph of perfection. Her beauty, which usually needed no artificial aid, was striking, and her large dark eyes rested on each in turn with an air of innocent wonder, quickly followed by a pathetic, beseeching little smile that touched the heart of several auditors, even though they deemed it disingenuous. Maurice Trask, shrewd and calculating, sized her up, as he would have expressed it. And his sizing up was decidedly complimentary. So much so, in fact, that he almost concluded to take her part against all comers. “I’m for her,” he said to himself, “and yet,” he added, to the same confidant, “she’s nobody’s fool! That girl knows what she’s about—and by jingo, if she wanted to kill a man, she could kill him! I’ll say she could!” It was Miss Austin’s dress that caught every one’s eye. Not a person present, among the visitors, but wanted to say, “turn around—oh, do!” But the girl sank into a low chair beside Saltonstall Adams and quietly awaited developments. “May I present Mr. Trask,” Cray said, a little awkwardly, for it was not easy to be casual under the glance of those pathetic eyes. Anita bowed courteously if coldly, and then there was an embarrassing silence. “Well,” Trask remarked, at last, “you people are not very talkative, guess I’ll take the helm myself. Miss Austin, will you be good enough to get up and turn around?” The request was so simply made, that, almost without thinking of its strangeness, Anita did exactly as she was asked. Sure enough, there were two rows of buttons down the back of her bodice, and another row across the sailor collar. At a nod from Trask she sat down again, and then the storm broke. “I told you so!” cried Helen Peyton. “That’s the very dress that made the marks on that chair back! Dare you deny, Miss Austin, that you were in Doctor Waring’s study that night he died?” The dark eyes of Miss Mystery opened wide in horror. She seemed fairly paralyzed with fright, and glanced wildly from one face to another. Maurice Trask’s showed only frank admiration. He looked at the girl as if he had never before seen any one so attractive. Gordon Lockwood’s face betrayed no emotion of any sort. Had he been indifferent to Miss Mystery instead of loving her, as he did, he could have shown no less expressive countenance. And all the others present showed definite and decided suspicion, scorn and hatred. Except one. Old Salt looked kindly at the agitated girl. He even held out a protective hand, and with a gentle inflection, said: “Tell the truth, dear child. Did you know Doctor Waring?” Slowly Miss Mystery’s eyes traveled round the room. Looking at each face in turn, her own expression became more and more hard and stubborn. Then, seeing the kindness on the face of Old Salt, she broke down utterly and sobbed out. “Oh, he’s dead—he’s dead! what shall I do?” |
|
