CHAPTER XXV. AT THE STATION
So it had been the tiger, not the lady! Well, I had held to that theoryall through. Jennie suddenly became a valuable person; if necessary shecould prove the connection between Sullivan and the murdered man, andshow a motive for the crime. I was triumphant when Hotchkiss came in.When the girl had produced a photograph of Mrs. Sullivan, and I hadrecognized the bronze-haired girl of the train, we were both wellsatisfied--which goes to prove the ephemeral nature of most humancontentments.
Jennie either had nothing more to say, or feared she had said too much.She was evidently uneasy before Hotchkiss. I told her that Mrs. Sullivanwas recovering in a Baltimore hospital, but she already knew it, fromsome source, and merely nodded. She made a few preparations for leaving,while Hotchkiss and I compared notes, and then, with the cat in herarms, she climbed into the trap from the town. I sat with her, and onthe way down she told me a little, not much.
"If you see Mrs. Sullivan," she advised, "and she is conscious, sheprobably thinks that both her husband and her father were killed in thewreck. She will be in a bad way, sir."
"You mean that she--still cares about her husband?"
The cat crawled over on to my knee, and rubbed its bead against my handinvitingly. Jennie stared at the undulating line of the mountain crests,a colossal sun against a blue ocean of sky. "Yes, she cares," she saidsoftly. "Women are made like that. They say they are cats, but Peterthere in your lap wouldn't come back and lick your hand if you kickedhim. If--if you have to tell her the truth, be as gentle as you can,sir. She has been good to me--that's why I have played the spy here allsummer. It's a thankless thing, spying on people."
"It is that," I agreed soberly.
Hotchkiss and I arrived in Washington late that evening, and, ratherthan arouse the household, I went to the club. I was at the office earlythe next morning and admitted myself. McKnight rarely appeared beforehalf after ten, and our modest office force some time after nine. Ilooked over my previous day's mail and waited, with such patience as Ipossessed, for McKnight. In the interval I called up Mrs. Kloptonand announced that I would dine at home that night. What my householdsubsists on during my numerous absences I have never discovered. Tea,probably, and crackers. Diligent search when I have made a midnightarrival, never reveals anything more substantial. Possibly I imagine it,but the announcement that I am about to make a journey always seemsto create a general atmosphere of depression throughout the house,as though Euphemia and Eliza, and Thomas, the stableman, were alreadysubsisting, in imagination, on Mrs. Klopton's meager fare.
So I called her up and announced my arrival. There was something unusualin her tone, as though her throat was tense with indignation. Alwaysshrill, her elderly voice rasped my ear painfully through the receiver.
"I have changed the butcher, Mr. Lawrence," she announced portentously."The last roast was a pound short, and his mutton-chops--anyself-respecting sheep would refuse to acknowledge them."
As I said before, I can always tell from the voice in which Mrs. Kloptonconveys the most indifferent matters, if something of real significancehas occurred. Also, through long habit, I have learned how quickest tobring her to the point.
"You are pessimistic this morning," I returned. "What's the matter, Mrs.Klopton? You haven't used that tone since Euphemia baked a pie for theiceman. What is it now? Somebody poison the dog?"
She cleared her throat.
"The house has been broken into, Mr. Lawrence," she said. "I have livedin the best families, and never have I stood by and seen what Isaw yesterday--every bureau drawer opened, and my--my most sacredbelongings--" she choked.
"Did you notify the police?" I asked sharply.
"Police!" she sniffed. "Police! It was the police that did it--twodetectives with a search warrant. I--I wouldn't dare tell you over thetelephone what one of them said when he found the whisky and rock candyfor my cough."
"Did they take anything?" I demanded, every nerve on edge.
"They took the cough medicine," she returned indignantly, "and theysaid--"
"Confound the cough medicine!" I was frantic. "Did they take anythingelse? Were they in my dressing-room?"
"Yes. I threatened to sue them, and I told them what you would do whenyou came back. But they wouldn't listen. They took away that blacksealskin bag you brought home from Pittsburg with you!"
I knew then that my hours of freedom were numbered. To have foundSullivan and then, in support of my case against him, to have producedthe bag, minus the bit of chain, had been my intention. But the policehad the bag, and, beyond knowing something of Sullivan's history, I waspractically no nearer his discovery than before. Hotchkiss hoped he hadhis man in the house off Washington Circle, but on the very night he hadseen him Jennie claimed that Sullivan had tried to enter the Laurels.Then--suppose we found Sullivan and proved the satchel and its contentshis? Since the police had the bit of chain it might mean involvingAlison in the story. I sat down and buried my face in my hands. Therewas no escape. I figured it out despondingly.
Against me was the evidence of the survivors of the Ontario that I hadbeen accused of the murder at the time. There had been blood-stains onmy pillow and a hidden dagger. Into the bargain, in my possession hadbeen found a traveling-bag containing the dead man's pocket-book.
In my favor was McKnight's theory against Mrs. Conway. She had a motivefor wishing to secure the notes, she believed I was in lower ten, andshe had collapsed at the discovery of the crime in the morning.
Against both of these theories, I accuse a purely chimerical personnamed Sullivan, who was not seen by any of the survivors--save one,Alison, whom I could not bring into the case. I could find a motive forhis murdering his father-in-law, whom he hated, but again--I would haveto drag in the girl.
And not one of the theories explained the telegram and the brokennecklace.
Outside the office force was arriving. They were comfortably ignorantof my presence, and over the transom floated scraps of dialogue and thestenographer's gurgling laugh. McKnight had a relative, who was readinglaw with him, in the intervals between calling up the young women of hisacquaintance. He came in singing, and the office boy joined in with theuncertainty of voice of fifteen. I smiled grimly. I was too busy with myown troubles to find any joy in opening the door and startling them intosilence. I even heard, without resentment, Blobs of the uncertain voiceinquire when "Blake" would be back.
I hoped McKnight would arrive before the arrest occurred. There weremany things to arrange. But when at last, impatient of his delay, Itelephoned, I found he had been gone for more than an hour. Clearly hewas not coming directly to the office, and with such resignation as Icould muster I paced the floor and waited.
I felt more alone than I have ever felt in my life. "Born an orphan,"as Richey said, I had made my own way, carved out myself such success ashad been mine. I had built up my house of life on the props of law andorder, and now some unknown hand had withdrawn the supports, and I stoodamong ruins.
I suppose it is the maternal in a woman that makes a man turn to herwhen everything else fails. The eternal boy in him goes to have hiswounded pride bandaged, his tattered self-respect repaired. If he lovesthe woman, he wants her to kiss the hurt.
The longing to see Alison, always with me, was stronger than I was thatmorning. It might be that I would not see her again. I had nothing tosay to her save one thing, and that, under the cloud that hung over me,I did not dare to say. But I wanted to see her, to touch her hand--asonly a lonely man can crave it, I wanted the comfort of her, the peacethat lay in her presence. And so, with every step outside the door athreat, I telephoned to her.
She was gone! The disappointment was great, for my need was great. Ina fury of revolt against the scheme of things, I heard that she hadstarted home to Richmond--but that she might still be caught at thestation.
To see her had by that time become an obsession. I picked up my hat,threw open the door, and, oblivious of the shock to the office forceof my presence, followed s
o immediately by my exit, I dashed out to theelevator. As I went down in one cage I caught a glimpse of Johnson andtwo other men going up in the next. I hardly gave them a thought. Therewas no hansom in sight, and I jumped on a passing car. Let come whatmight, arrest, prison, disgrace, I was going to see Alison.
I saw her. I flung into the station, saw that it was empty--empty, forshe was not there. Then I hurried back to the gates. She was there, afamiliar figure in blue, the very gown in which I always thought ofher, the one she had worn when, Heaven help me--I had kissed her, at theCarter farm. And she was not alone. Bending over her, talking earnestly,with all his boyish heart in his face, was Richey.
They did not see me, and I was glad of it. After all, it had beenMcKnight's game first. I turned on my heel and made my way blindly outof the station. Before I lost them I turned once and looked toward them,standing apart from the crowd, absorbed in each other. They were theonly two people on earth that I cared about, and I left them theretogether. Then I went back miserably to the office and awaited arrest.
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