  “Maida, it cannot be. I shall never let you marry Mr. Keefe when I know how you love Jeffrey.” Sara Wheeler spoke quietly, but her agonized face and tear-filled eyes told of her deep distress. Though not demonstrative, she loved her daughter, her only child, with an affection that was almost idolatry, and she had been glad of the idea of Maida’s marriage to Jeffrey, for she knew of his sterling worth, and she knew the depth and sincerity of their attachment. “Don’t say you won’t let me, mother,” Maida spoke in a dull, sad tone—a tone of calm despair. “It must be so. I’m not saying I love him—I’m not saying much about it all—but I tell you solemnly—it must be. And you must not raise a single word of objection—if you do, you will only make my hard lot harder.” “But, dear, you must explain. I am your mother—I’ve always had your confidence, and I ought to be told why you are doing this thing.” “That’s just the trouble, mother. I can’t tell you. And because of the confidence that has always been between us, you must trust me and believe that I am doing right—and doing the only possible thing. Oh, it is all hard enough, without having to argue about it. Why, my will power may give out! My soul strength may break down! Mother! don’t—don’t combat me! Don’t tempt me aside from the only straight line of duty and of right!” “Child, you are not doing right! You cannot have a duty of which I know nothing! Of which your father knows nothing! Maida, my little girl, what is this thing that has warped your sense of right and wrong? Has Curtis Keefe won your heart away from Jeffrey——” “No—oh, no! Never that! But it would be a wrong to Jeffrey for me to marry him—it would be a wrong to—to all of us! By marrying Mr. Keefe I can make everything right—and——” she suddenly assumed an air of cold, stern determination. “Mother, my mind is made up. You cannot change it, nor can you help me by trying. You only make it harder for me, and I beg of you to stop. And then—you know, mother—I killed Mr. Appleby——” “Hush, Maida, you never did! I know you didn’t!” “But it was either I or father! You don’t believe he did, do you?” “God help me! I don’t know what to believe! But I tried to say I did it—only I couldn’t carry it out—nor can you, dear.” “Nor can father, then. Oh, mother, I did do that shooting! I did! I did!” “Every assertion like that makes me more certain you didn’t,” and Mrs. Wheeler fondly caressed the head that lay on her breast. Maida was not hysterical, but so deeply troubled that she was nervously unstrung and now gave way to torrents of tears, and then ceased crying and bravely announced her plans. “Please, mother darling, don’t talk about that. Suppose I tell you that even that matter will be all set right if I marry Curtis Keefe—and by no other means. Even Mr. Stone can’t find any other suspect than us three Wheelers. He doesn’t at all believe in the ‘bugler.’ Nobody does.” “I do.” “Only as a last chance to free father and me. Mother it’s an awful situation. Worse, far worse than you know anything about. Won’t you trust me to do what I know to be right—and when I tell you I must marry Mr. Keefe, won’t you believe me? And not only believe me but help me. Help me in every way you can—for God knows I need help.” “What can I do, darling,” asked Sara Wheeler, awed by the look of utter hopelessness on Maida’s face. “Stand by me, mother. Urge father not to oppose this marriage. Help me to tell Jeffrey—you tell him, can’t you, mother? I can’t—oh, I can’t!” Again Sara Wheeler broke out into protestations against this sacrifice of her loved daughter, and again Maida had to reaffirm her decision, until, both worn out, they separated, Sara promising to do just as Maida wished in all things. And in fulfillment of this promise, Sara told young Allen. As she expected, he was stunned by the news, but where she had supposed he would show anger or rage, he showed only a deep sympathy for Maida. “Poor little girl,” he said, the quick tears springing to his eyes; “what dreadful thing can that man have held over her to force her to this? And what is the best way for me to go about remedying the situation? You know, Mrs. Wheeler, Maida wouldn’t talk like that unless she had arrived at a very desperate crisis——” “If she killed Mr. Appleby——” “She never did! No power on earth can make me believe that! Why, when Maida’s own confession doesn’t convince me, what else could? No; there’s some deep mystery behind that murder. I mean something far deeper and more mysterious than any of us yet realize. I think Mr. Stone is on track of the solution, but he cannot have made much progress—or, if he has, he hasn’t told of it yet. But, I’m not a detective—nor is any needed when Mr. Stone is on the case, but I am out to protect and clear my Maida—my darling. Poor child, how she is suffering! Where is she?” “Don’t go to her, Jeff. At least, not just now. She begged that you wouldn’t——” “But I must—I’ve got to!” “No; for her sake—Jeffrey dear, for our Maida’s sake, leave her alone for the present. She is so worried and anxious, so wrought up to the very verge of collapse, that if you try to talk to her she will go all to pieces.” “But that’s all wrong. I ought to soothe her, to comfort her—not make her more troubled!” “You ought to, I know, but you wouldn’t. Oh, it isn’t your fault—it isn’t that you don’t love her enough—not that she doesn’t love you enough—in fact, that’s just the trouble. Try to see it, Jeff. Maida is in the clutch of circumstances. I don’t know the facts, you don’t; but it is true that the kindest thing we can do for her just now is to leave her alone. She will do right——” “As she sees it, yes! But she sees wrong, I know she does! The child has always been overconscientious—and I’m positive that whatever she is up to, it’s something to save her father!” “Oh, Jeff—then you believe he is——” “Why, Mrs. Wheeler, don’t you know whether your husband killed Mr. Appleby or not?” “I don’t know! Heaven help me—how can I know? The two of them, shielding each other——” “Wait a minute, if they are shielding each other—they’re both innocent!” “But it isn’t that way. Mr. Wheeler said to me, at first: ‘Of course, either Maida or I did it. We both know which one did it, but if we don’t tell, no one else can know.’” “I see that point; but I should think, knowing both so closely as you do, you could discern the truth—and”—he gazed at her steadily—“you have.” “Yes—I have. Of course, as you say, in such intimacy as we three are, it would be impossible for me not to know.” “And—it was Maida?” “Yes, Jeffrey.” “How are you certain?” “Her father saw her.” “Saw her shoot?” “Yes.” “Then, I’m glad you told me. I’m going to marry her at once, and have all rights of her protection through the trial—if it comes to that. Nothing else could have convinced me of her act! Poor, dear little Maida. I’ve known her capability for sudden, impulsive action but—oh, well, if Mr. Wheeler saw her—that’s all there is to be said. Now, dear Mrs. Wheeler, you must let me go to my Maida!” “But, Jeffrey, I only told you that to persuade you to let her alone. Let her have her own way. She says that to marry Curtis Keefe will save her from prosecution—even from suspicion. She says he can free her from all implication in the matter.” “By a fraud?” “I don’t know——” “I won’t have it! If Maida did that shooting she had ample excuse—motive, rather. Not a man on a jury would convict her. And I’d rather she’d stand trial and——” “Oh, no, Jeffrey, don’t talk like that! I’d consent to anything to save that girl from a trial—oh, you can’t mean you want her tried!” “Rather than to see her married to any man but me, I’d——” “Wait, Jeff. We mustn’t be selfish. I’m her mother, and much as I’d hate to see her marry Keefe, I’d far prefer it—for her sake, than——” “No! a thousand times, no! Why, I won’t give her up! Keefe is a fine man—I’ve nothing against him—but she’s my Maida—my own little sweetheart——” “And for that reason—for your own sake—you’re going to claim her?” “It isn’t only for my own sake”—Jeff spoke more humbly; “but I know—I know how she loves me. To let her marry another would be to do her a grievous wrong——” “Not if she wants to—look there!” Mrs. Wheeler pointed from the window, and they saw Maida walking across the lawn in deep and earnest conversation with Curtis Keefe. He was tall and handsome and the deferential air and courteous attitude all spoke in his favor. Maida was apparently listening with interest to his talk, and they went on slowly toward the old sycamore and sat down on the bench beneath it. “Our trysting-place!” Jeffrey murmured, his eyes fastened on the pair. It did not require over-close observation to see that Maida was listening willingly to Keefe. Nor was there room for doubt that he was saying something that pleased her. She was brighter and more cheerful than she had been for days. “You see,” said Sara Wheeler, sadly. “And he is a worth-while man. Mr. Appleby thought very highly of him.” “I don’t!” said Allen, briefly, and unable to stand any more, he left the room. He went straight to the two who were sitting under the big tree, and spoke directly: “What does this mean, Maida? Your mother tells me you——” “Let me answer,” spoke up Keefe, gaily; “it means that Miss Wheeler has promised to marry me. And we ask your congratulations.” “Are you not aware,” Jeff’s face was white but his voice was controlled and steady, “that Miss Wheeler is my fiancÉe?” “Hardly that,” demurred Keefe. “I believe there was what is called an understanding, but I’m assured it has never been announced. However, the lady will speak for herself.” “Go away, Jeff,” Maida pleaded; “please, go away.” “Not until you tell me yourself, Maida, what you are doing. Why does Mr. Keefe say these things?” “It is true.” Maida’s face was as white as Allen’s. “I am going to marry Mr. Keefe. If you considered me bound to you, I—hereby break it off. Please go away!” the last words were wrung from her in a choked, agonized voice, as if she were at the end of her composure. “I’m going,” Allen said, and went off in a daze. He was convinced of one thing only. That Maida was in the power of something or some person—some combination of circumstances that forced her to this. He had no doubt she meant what she said; had no doubt she would really marry Keefe—but he couldn’t think she had ceased to love him—her own Jeffrey! If he thought that, he was ready to die! He walked along half blindly, thinking round in circles, always coming back to the possibility—now practically a certainty—of Maida being the murderer, and wondering how Keefe meant to save her from the clutches of the law. He was perturbed—almost dazed, and as he went along unseeingly, Genevieve Lane met him, turned and walked by his side. “What’s Curtie Keefe doing with your girl?” she asked, for the rolling lawn was so free of trees, the pair beneath the sycamore could be plainly seen. “I don’t know!” said Allen, honestly enough, as he looked in the good-humored face of the stenographer. “I don’t want him making love to her,” Miss Lane went on, pouting a little, “first, because she’s altogether too much of a belle anyway; and second—because——” She paused, almost scared at the desperate gaze Allen gave her. “I hope you mean because you look upon him as your property,” he said, but without smiling. “Now, just why do you hope that?” “Because in that case, surely you can get him back——” “Oh, what an aspersion on Miss Wheeler’s fascinations!” “Hush; I’m in no mood for chaffing. Are you and Keefe special friends?” Genevieve looked at him a moment, and then said, very frankly: “If we’re not, it isn’t my fault. And—to tell you the bald truth, we would have been, had not Miss Wheeler come between us.” “Are you sure of that?” “How rude you are! But, yes—I’m practically sure. Nobody can be sure till they’re certain, you know.” “Don’t try to joke with me. Look here, Miss Lane, suppose you and I try to work together for our respective ends.” “Meaning just what, Mr. Allen?” “Meaning that we try to separate Keefe and Maida—not just at this moment—but seriously and permanently. You, because you want him, and I, because I want her. Isn’t it logical?” “Yes; but if I could get him back, don’t you suppose I would?” “You don’t get the idea. You’re to work for me, and I for you.” “Oh—I try to make Maida give him up—and you——” “Yes; but we must have some pretty strong arguments. Now, have you any idea why Maida has——” “Has picked him up with the tongs? I have a very decided idea! In fact, I know.” “You do! Is it a secret?” “It is. Such a big secret, that if it leaked out, the whole universe, so far as it affects the Wheeler family, would be turned topsy-turvy!” “Connected with the—the death of Mr. Appleby?” “Not with the murder—if that’s what you mean. But it was because of the death of Mr. Appleby that the secret came to light.” “Can you tell me?” “I can—but do I want to?” “What would make you want to?” “Why—only if you could do what you sort of suggested—make Mr. Keefe resume his attentions to poor little Genevieve and leave the lovely Maida to you.” “But how can I do that?” “Dunno, I’m sure! Do you want me to tell you the secret, and then try to get my own reward by my own efforts?” “Oh, I don’t know what I want! I’m nearly distracted. But”—he pulled himself together—“I’m on the job! And I’m going to accomplish something—a lot! Now, I’m not going to dicker with you. Size it up for yourself. Don’t you believe that if you told me that secret—confidentially—except as it can be used in the furtherance of right and happiness for all concerned—don’t you believe that I might use it in a way that would incidentally result in a better adjustment of the present Keefe-Wheeler combination?” He nodded toward the two under the sycamore. “Maybe,” Genevieve said, slowly and thoughtfully, “I thought of telling Mr. Stone—but——” “Tell me first, and let me advise you.” “I will; I have confidence in you, Mr. Allen, and, too, it may be a good thing to keep the secret in the family. The truth is, then, that Mrs. Wheeler is not legally the heir to this estate.” “She is, if she lives in Massachusetts, and the house is so built——” “Oh, fiddlesticks! I don’t mean that part of it. The estate is left with the proviso that the inheritor shall live in Massachusetts—but, what I mean is, that it isn’t left to Mrs. Wheeler at all. She thought it was, of course—but there is another heir.” “Is there? I’ve often heard them speak of such a possibility but they never could find a trace of one.” “I know it, and they’re so honest that if they knew of one they’d put up no fight. I mean if they knew there is a real heir, and that Sara Wheeler is not the right inheritor.” “Who is?” “Curtis Keefe!” “Oh, no! Miss Lane, are you sure?” “I am. I discovered it from Mr. Appleby’s private papers, since his death.” “Does Keefe know it?” “Of course; but he doesn’t know I know it. Now, see here, Mr. Allen, get this. Mr. Appleby knew it when he came down here. He—this is only my own theory, but I’ll bet it’s the right one—he had discovered it lately; Keefe didn’t know it. My theory is, that he came down here to hold that knowledge as a club over the head of Mr. Wheeler to force him to do his, Appleby’s, bidding in the campaign matters. Well, then—he was killed to prevent the information going any farther.” “Killed by whom?” Genevieve shrugged her shoulders. “I can’t say. Any one of the three Wheelers might have done it for that reason.” “No; you’re wrong. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Wheeler would have. They’d give up the place at once.” “Your mental reservation speaks for itself! That leaves Maida! Suppose she knew it and the rest didn’t. Suppose, in order to keep the knowledge from her parents——” “Don’t go on!” he begged. “I see it—maybe it was so. But—what next?” “Next—alas, Curt Keefe has fallen a victim to Maida’s smiles. That’s what’s making more trouble than anything else. I’m positive he is arguing that if she will marry him he will keep quiet about his being the heir. Then, her parents can live here in peace for the rest of their lives.” “I begin to see.” “I knew you would. Now, knowing this, and being bound to secrecy concerning it, except, as you agreed, if it can serve our ends, where do we go from here?” Allen looked at her steadily. “Do you expect, Miss Lane, that I will consent to keep this secret from the Wheelers?” “You’ll have to,” she returned, simply. “Maida knows it, therefore it’s her secret now. If she doesn’t want her parents told—you can’t presume to tell them!” Allen looked blank. “And you mean, she’d marry Keefe, to keep the secret from her parents?” “Exactly that; and there’d be no harm in keeping the secret that way, for if Curt Keefe were her husband, it wouldn’t matter whether he was the rightful heir or not, if he didn’t choose to exercise or even make known his rights.” “I see. And—as to the——” “The murder?” Genevieve helped him. “Well, I don’t know. If Maida did it—and I can’t see any way out of that conclusion, Curt will do whatever he can to get her off easily. Perhaps he can divert suspicion elsewhere—you know he made up that bugler man, and has stuck to him—maybe he can get a persons unknown verdict—or maybe, with money and influence, he can hush the whole thing up—and, anyway—Maida would never be convicted. Why, possibly, the threat of Mr. Appleby—if he did threaten—could be called blackmail. Anyhow, if there’s a loophole, Curtis Keefe will find it! He’s as smart as they make ’em. Now, you know the probabilities—almost the inevitabilities, I might say, what are we going to do about it?” “Something pretty desperate, I can tell you!” “Fine talk, but what’s the first step?” “Do you want to know what I think?” “I sure do.” “Then, I say, let’s take the whole story to Fleming Stone—and at once.” |
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