I said this to see if she had any reason to doubt the future. I was amply rewarded.
"Anything fresh? How could there be anything fresh, when she is perfectly innocent?"
Suddenly, a thought seemed to strike her. Wheeling round in her seat till her lovely, perfumed wrapper brushed my knee, she asked: "Why didn't they ask me more questions? I could have told them Eleanore never left her room last night."
"You could?" What was I to think of this woman?
"Yes; my room is nearer the head of the stairs than hers; if she had passed my door, I should have heard her, don't you see?"
Ah, that was all.
"That does not follow," I answered sadly. "Can you give no other reason?"
"I would say whatever was necessary," she whispered.
I started back. Yes, this woman would lie now to save her cousin; had lied during the inquest. But then I felt grateful, and now I was simply horrified.
"Miss Leavenworth," said I, "nothing can justify one in violating the dictates of his own conscience, not even the safety of one we do not altogether love."
"No?" she returned; and her lip took a tremulous curve, the lovely bosom heaved, and she softly looked away.
If Eleanore's beauty had made less of an impression on my fancy, or her frightful situation awakened less anxiety in my breast, I should have been a lost man from that moment.
"I did not mean to do anything very wrong," Miss Leavenworth continued. "Do not think too badly of me."
"No, no," said I; and there is not a man living who would not have said the same in my place.
What more might have passed between us on this subject I cannot say, for just then the door opened and a man entered whom I recognized as the one who had followed Eleanore Leavenworth out, a short time before.
"Mr. Gryce," said he, pausing just inside the door; "a word if you please."
The detective nodded, but did not hasten towards him; instead of that, he walked deliberately away to the other end of the room, where he lifted the lid of an inkstand he saw there, muttered some unintelligible words into it, and speedily shut it again. Immediately the uncanny fancy seized me that if I should leap to that inkstand, open it and peer in, I should surprise and capture the bit of confidence he had intrusted to it. But I restrained my foolish impulse, and contented myself with noting the subdued look of respect with which the gaunt subordinate watched the approach of his superior.
"Well?" inquired the latter as he reached him: "what now?"
The man shrugged his shoulders, and drew his principal through the open door. Once in the hall their voices sank to a whisper, and as their backs only were visible, I turned to look at my companion. She was pale but composed.
"Has he come from Eleanore?"
"I do not know; I fear so. Miss Leavenworth," I proceeded, "can it be possible that your cousin has anything in her possession she desires to conceal?"
"Then you think she is trying to conceal something?"
"I do not say so. But there was considerable talk about a paper—"
"They will never find any paper or anything else suspicious in Eleanore's possession," Mary interrupted. "In the first place, there was no paper of importance enough"—I saw Mr. Gryce's form suddenly stiffen—"for any one to attempt its abstraction and concealment."
"Can you be sure of that? May not your cousin be acquainted with something—"
"There was nothing to be acquainted with, Mr. Raymond. We lived the most methodical and domestic of lives. I cannot understand, for my part, why so much should be made out of this. My uncle undoubtedly came to his death by the hand of some intended burglar. That nothing was stolen from the house is no proof that a burglar never entered it. As for the doors and windows being locked, will you take the word of an Irish servant as infallible upon such an important point? I cannot. I believe the assassin to be one of a gang who make their living by breaking into houses, and if you cannot honestly agree with me, do try and consider such an explanation as possible; if not for the sake of the family credit, why then"—and she turned her face with all its fair beauty upon mine, eyes, cheeks, mouth all so exquisite and winsome—"why then, for mine."
Instantly Mr. Gryce turned towards us. "Mr. Raymond, will you be kind enough to step this way?"
Glad to escape from my present position, I hastily obeyed.
"What has happened?" I asked.
"We propose to take you into our confidence," was the easy response. "Mr. Raymond, Mr. Fobbs."
I bowed to the man I saw before me, and stood uneasily waiting. Anxious as I was to know what we really had to fear, I still intuitively shrank from any communication with one whom I looked upon as a spy.
"A matter of some importance," resumed the detective. "It is not necessary for me to remind you that it is in confidence, is it?"
"No."
"I thought not. Mr. Fobbs you may proceed."
Instantly the whole appearance of the man Fobbs changed. Assuming an expression of lofty importance, he laid his large hand outspread upon his heart and commenced.
"Detailed by Mr. Gryce to watch the movements of Miss Eleanore Leavenworth, I left this room upon her departure from it, and followed her and the two servants who conducted her up-stairs to her own apartment. Once there—"
Mr. Gryce interrupted him. "Once there? where?"
"Her own room, sir."
"Where situated?"
"At the head of the stairs."
"That is not her room. Go on."
"Not her room? Then it was the fire she was after!" he cried, clapping himself on the knee.
"The fire?"
"Excuse me; I am ahead of my story. She did not appear to notice me much, though I was right behind her. It was not until she had reached the door of this room—which was not her room!" he interpolated dramatically, "and turned to dismiss her servants, that she seemed conscious of having been followed. Eying me then with an air of great dignity, quickly eclipsed, however, by an expression of patient endurance, she walked in, leaving the door open behind her in a courteous way I cannot sufficiently commend."
I could not help frowning. Honest as the man appeared, this was evidently anything but a sore subject with him. Observing me frown, he softened his manner.
"Not seeing any other way of keeping her under my eye, except by entering the room, I followed her in, and took a seat in a remote corner. She flashed one look at me as I did so, and commenced pacing the floor in a restless kind of way I'm not altogether unused to. At last she stopped abruptly, right in the middle of the room. 'Get me a glass of water!' she gasped; 'I'm faint again—quick! on the stand in the corner.' Now in order to get that glass of water it was necessary for me to pass behind a dressing mirror that reached almost to the ceiling; and I naturally hesitated. But she turned and looked at me, and—Well, gentlemen, I think either of you would have hastened to do what she asked; or at least"—with a doubtful look at Mr. Gryce— "have given your two ears for the privilege, even if you didn't succumb to the temptation."
"Well, well!" exclaimed Mr. Gryce, impatiently.
"I am going on," said he. "I stepped cut of sight, then, for a moment; but it seemed long enough for her purpose; for when I emerged, glass in hand, she was kneeling at the grate full five feet from the spot where she had been standing, and was fumbling with the waist of her dress in a way to convince me she had something concealed there which she was anxious to dispose of. I eyed her pretty closely as I handed her the glass of water, but she was gazing into the grate, and didn't appear to notice. Drinking barely a drop, she gave it back, and in another moment was holding out her hands over the fire. 'Oh, I am so cold!' she cried, 'so cold.' And I verily believe she was. At any rate, she shivered most naturally. But there were a few dying embers in the grate, and when I saw her thrust her hand again into the folds of her dress I became distrustful of her intentions and, drawing a step nearer, looked over her shoulder, when I distinctly saw her drop something into the grate that clinked as it fell. Suspecting what it was, I was about to interfere, when she sprang to her feet, seized the scuttle of coal that was upon the hearth, and with one move emptied the whole upon the dying embers. 'I want a fire,' she cried, 'a fire!' 'That is hardly the way to make one,' I returned, carefully taking the coal out with my hands, piece by piece, and putting it back into the scuttle, till—"
"Till what?" I asked, seeing him and Mr. Gryce exchange a hurried look.
"Till I found this!" opening his large hand, and showing me a broken-handled key.
"There's nothing ill
Can dwell in such a temple."
--Tempest.
THIS astounding discovery made a most unhappy impression upon me. It was true, then. Eleanore the beautiful, the lovesome, was—I did not, could not finish the sentence, even in the silence of my own mind.
"You look surprised," said Mr. Gryce, glancing curiously towards the key. "Now, I ain't. A woman does not thrill, blush, equivocate, and faint for nothing; especially such a woman as Miss Leavenworth."
"A woman who could do such a deed would be the last to thrill, equivocate, and faint," I retorted. "Give me the key; let me see it."
He complacently put it in my hand. "It is the one we want. No getting out of that."
I returned it. "If she declares herself innocent, I will believe her."
He stared with great amazement. "You have strong faith in the women," he laughed. "I hope they will never disappoint you."
I had no reply for this, and a short silence ensued, first broken by Mr. Gryce. "There is but one thing left to do," said he. "Fobbs, you will have to request Miss Leavenworth to come down. Do not alarm her; only see that she comes. To the reception room," he added, as the man drew off.
No sooner were we left alone than I made a move to return to Mary, but he stopped me.
"Come and see it out," he whispered. "She will be down in a moment; see it out; you had best."
Glancing back, I hesitated; but the prospect of beholding Eleanore again drew me, in spite of myself. Telling him to wait, I returned to Mary's side to make my excuses.
"What is the matter—what has occurred?" she breathlessly asked.
"Nothing as yet to disturb you much. Do not be alarmed." But my face betrayed me.
"There is something!" said she.
"Your cousin is coming down."
"Down here?" and she shrank visibly.
"No, to the reception room."
"I do not understand. It is all dreadful; and no one tells me anything."
"I pray God there may be nothing to tell. Judging from your present faith in your cousin, there will not be. Take comfort, then, and be assured I will inform you if anything occurs which you ought to know."
Giving her a look of encouragement, I left her crushed against the crimson pillows of the sofa on which she sat, and rejoined Mr. Gryce. We had scarcely entered the reception room when Eleanore Leavenworth came in.
More languid than she was an hour before, but haughty still, she slowly advanced, and, meeting my eye, gently bent her head.
"I have been summoned here," said she, directing herself exclusively to Mr. Gryce, "by an individual whom I take to be in your employ. If so, may I request you to make your wishes known at once, as I am quite exhausted, and am in great need of rest."
"Miss Leavenworth," returned Mr. Gryce, rubbing his hands together and staring in quite a fatherly manner at the door-knob, "I am very sorry to trouble you, but the fact is I wish to ask you—"
But here she stopped him. "Anything in regard to the key which that man has doubtless told you he saw me drop into the ashes?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Then I must refuse to answer any questions concerning it. I have nothing to say on the subject, unless it is this: "—giving him a look full of suffering, but full of a certain sort of courage, too—" that he was right if he told you I had the key in hiding about my person, and that I attempted to conceal it in the ashes of the grate."
"Still, Miss—"
But she had already withdrawn to the door. "I pray you to excuse me," said she. "No argument you could advance would make any difference in my determination; therefore it would be but a waste of energy on your part to attempt any." And, with a flitting glance in my direction, not without its appeal, she quietly left the room.
For a moment Mr. Gryce stood gazing after her with a look of great interest, then, bowing with almost exaggerated homage, he hastily followed her out.
I had scarcely recovered from the surprise occasioned by this unexpected movement when a quick step was heard in the hall, and Mary, flushed and anxious, appeared at my side.
"What is it?" she inquired. "What has Eleanore been saying?"
"Alas!" I answered, "she has not said anything. That is the trouble, Miss Leavenworth. Your cousin preserves a reticence upon certain points very painful to witness. She ought to understand that if she persists in doing this, that—"