“Fearful?” I repeated.
“Is it not fearful? To give one’s whole soul to a man and be met by—I must not talk of it; I must not think of it—But is he a good man? Does he love Miss Althorpe? Will she be happy? I have no right to ask, perhaps, but my gratitude towards her is such that I wish her every joy and pleasure.”
“Miss Althorpe has chosen well,” I rejoined. “Mr. Stone is a man in ten thousand.”
The sigh that answered me went to my heart.
“I will pray for her,” she murmured; “that will be something to live for.”
I did not know what reply to make to this. Everything which this girl said and did was so unexpected and so convincing in its sincerity, I felt moved by her even against my better judgment. I pitied her and yet I dared not urge her on to speak, lest I should fail in my task of making her well. I therefore confined myself to a few haphazard expressions of sympathy and encouragement, and left her in the hands of the nurse.
Next day Mr. Gryce called.
“Your patient is better,” said he.
“Much better,” was my cheerful reply. “This afternoon she will be able to leave the house.”
“Very good; have her down at half-past three and I will be in front with a carriage.”
“I dread it,” I cried; “but I will have her there.”
“You are beginning to like her, Miss Butterworth. Take care! You will lose your head if your sympathies become engaged.”
“It sits pretty firmly on my shoulders yet,” I retorted; “and as for sympathies, you are full of them yourself. I saw how you looked at her yesterday.”
“Bah, my looks!”
“You cannot deceive me, Mr. Gryce; you are as sorry for the girl as you can be; and so am I too. By the way, I do not think I should speak of her as a girl. From something she said yesterday I am convinced she is a married woman; and that her husband—”
“Well, madam?”
“I will not give him a name, at least not before your scheme has been carried out. Are you ready for the undertaking?”
“I will be this afternoon. At half-past three she is to leave the house. Not a minute before and not a minute later. Remember.”
CHAPTER XXXV
A RUSE
It was a new thing for me to enter into any scheme blindfold. But the past few weeks had taught me many lessons and among them to trust a little in the judgment of others.
Accordingly I was on hand with my patient at the hour designated, and, as I supported her trembling steps down the stairs, I endeavored not to betray the intense interest agitating me, or to awaken by my curiosity any further dread in her mind than that involved by her departure from this home of bounty and good feeling, and her entrance upon an unknown and possibly much to be apprehended future.
Mr. Gryce was awaiting us in the lower hall, and as he caught sight of her slender figure and anxious face his whole attitude became at once so protecting and so sympathetic, I did not wonder at her failure to associate him with the police.
As she stepped down to his side he gave her a genial nod.
“I am glad to see you so far on the road to recovery,” he remarked. “It shows me that my prophecy is correct and that in a few days you will be quite yourself again.”
She looked at him wistfully.
“You seem to know so much about me, doctor, perhaps you can tell me where they are going to take me.”
He lifted a tassel from a curtain near by, looked at it, shook his head at it, and inquired quite irrelevantly:
“Have you bidden good-bye to Miss Althorpe?”
Her eyes stole towards the parlors and she whispered as if half in awe of the splendor everywhere surrounding her:
“I have not had the opportunity. But I should be sorry to go without a word of thanks for her goodness. Is she at home?”
The tassel slipped from his hand.
“You will find her in a carriage at the door. She has an engagement out this afternoon, but wishes to say good-bye to you before leaving.”
“Oh, how kind she is!” burst from the girl’s white lips; and with a hurried gesture she was making for the door when Mr. Gryce stepped before her and opened it.
Two carriages were drawn up in front, neither of which seemed to possess the elegance of so rich a woman’s equipage. But Mr. Gryce appeared satisfied, and pointing to the nearest one, observed quietly:
“You are expected. If she does not open the carriage door for you, do not hesitate to do it yourself. She has something of importance to say to you.”
Miss Oliver looked surprised, but prepared to obey him. Steadying herself by the stone balustrade, she slowly descended the steps and advanced towards the carriage. I watched her from the doorway and Mr. Gryce from the vestibule. It seemed an ordinary situation, but something in the latter’s face convinced me that interests of no small moment depended upon the interview about to take place.
But before I could decide upon their nature or satisfy myself as to the full meaning of Mr. Gryce’s manner, she had started back from the carriage door and was saying to him in a tone of modest embarrassment:
“There is a gentleman in the carriage; you must have made some mistake.”
Mr. Gryce, who had evidently expected a different result from his stratagem, hesitated for a moment, during which I felt that he read her through and through; then he responded lightly:
“I made a mistake, eh? Oh, possibly. Look in the other carriage, my child.”
With an unaffected air of confidence she turned to do so, and I turned to watch her, for I began to understand the “scheme” at which I was assisting, and foresaw that the emotion she had failed to betray at the door of the first carriage might not necessarily be lacking on the opening of the second.
I was all the more assured of this from the fact that Miss Althorpe’s stately figure was very plainly to be seen at that moment, not in the coach Miss Oliver was approaching, but in an elegant victoria just turning the corner.
My expectations were realized; for no sooner had the poor girl swung open the door of the second hack, than her whole body succumbed to a shock so great that I expected to see her fall in a heap on the pavement. But she steadied herself up with a determined effort, and with a sudden movement full of subdued fury, jumped into the carriage and violently shut the door just as the first carriage drove off to give place to Miss Althorpe’s turn-out.
“Humph!” sprang from Mr. Gryce’s lips in a tone so full of varied emotions that it was with difficulty I refrained from rushing down the stoop to see for myself who was the occupant of the coach into which my late patient had so passionately precipitated herself. But the sight of Miss Althorpe being helped to the ground by her attendant lover, recalled me so suddenly to my own anomalous position on her stoop, that I let my first impulse pass and concerned myself instead with the formation of those apologies I thought necessary to the occasion. But those apologies were never uttered. Mr. Gryce, with the infinite tact he displays in all serious emergencies, came to my rescue, and so distracted Miss Althorpe’s attention that she failed to observe that she had interrupted a situation of no small moment.
Meanwhile the coach containing Miss Oliver had, at a signal from the wary detective, drawn off in the wake of the first one, and I had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing them both roll down the street without my having penetrated the secret of either.
A glance from Mr. Stone, who had followed Miss Althorpe up the stoop, interrupted Mr. Gryce’s flow of eloquence, and a few minutes later I found myself making those adieux which I had hoped to avoid by departing in Miss Althorpe’s absence. Another instant and I was hastening down the street in the direction taken by the two carriages, one of which had paused at the corner a few rods off.
But, spry as I am for one of my settled habits and sedate character, I found myself passed by Mr. Gryce; and when I would have accelerated my steps, he darted forward quite like a boy and, without a word of explanation or any acknowledgment of the mutua
l understanding which certainly existed between us, leaped into the carriage I was endeavoring to reach, and was driven away. But not before I caught a glimpse of Miss Oliver’s gray dress inside.
Determined not to be baffled by this man, I turned about and followed the other carriage. It was approaching a crowded part of the avenue, and in a few minutes I had the gratification of seeing it come to a standstill only a few feet from the curb-stone. The opportunity thus afforded me of satisfying my curiosity was not to be slighted. Without pausing to consider consequences or to question the propriety of my conduct, I stepped boldly up in front of its half-lowered window and looked in. There was but one person inside, and that person was Franklin Van Burnam.
What was I to conclude from this? That the occupant of the other carriage was Howard, and that Mr. Gryce now knew with which of the two brothers Miss Oliver’s memories were associated.
THAT AFFAIR NEXT DOOR [Part 4]
BOOK IV: THE END OF A GREAT MYSTERY
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE RESULT
I was as much surprised at this result of Mr. Gryce’s scheme as he was, and possibly I was more chagrined. But I shall not enter into my feelings on the subject, or weary you any further with my conjectures. You will be much more interested, I know, in learning what occurred to Mr. Gryce upon entering the carriage holding Miss Oliver.
He had expected, from the intense emotion she displayed at the sight of Howard Van Burnam (for I was not mistaken as to the identity of the person occupying the carriage with her), to find her flushed with the passions incident upon this meeting, and her companion in a condition of mind which would make it no longer possible for him to deny his connection with this woman and his consequently guilty complicity in a murder to which both were linked by so many incriminating circumstances.
But for all his experience, the detective was disappointed in this expectation, as he had been in so many others connected with this case. There was nothing in Miss Oliver’s attitude to indicate that she had unburdened herself of any of the emotions with which she was so grievously agitated, nor was there on Mr. Van Burnam’s part any deeper manifestation of feeling than a slight glow on his cheek, and even that disappeared under the detective’s scrutiny, leaving him as composed and imperturbable as he had been in his memorable inquisition before the Coroner.
Disappointed, and yet in a measure exhilarated by this sudden check in plans he had thought too well laid for failure, Mr. Gryce surveyed the young girl more carefully, and saw that he had not been mistaken in regard to the force or extent of the feelings which had driven her into Mr. Van Burnam’s presence; and turning back to that gentleman, was about to give utterance to some very pertinent remarks, when he was forestalled by Mr. Van Burnam inquiring, in his old calm way, which nothing seemed able to disturb:
“Who is this crazy girl you have forced upon me? If I had known I was to be subjected to such companionship I should not have regarded my outing so favorably.”
Mr. Gryce, who never allowed himself to be surprised by anything a suspected criminal might do or say, surveyed him quietly for a moment, then turned towards Miss Oliver.
“You hear what this gentleman calls you?” said he.
Her face was hidden by her hands, but she dropped them as the detective addressed her, showing a countenance so distorted by passion that it stopped the current of his thoughts, and made him question whether the epithet bestowed upon her by their somewhat callous companion was entirely unjustified. But soon the something else which was in her face restored his confidence in her sanity, and he saw that while her reason might be shaken it was not yet dethroned, and that he had good cause to expect sooner or later some action from a woman whose misery could wear an aspect of such desperate resolution.
That he was not the only one affected by the force and desperate character of her glance became presently apparent, for Mr. Van Burnam, with a more kindly tone than he had previously used, observed quietly:
“I see the lady is suffering. I beg pardon for my inconsiderate words. I have no wish to insult the unhappy.”
Never was Mr. Gryce so nonplussed. There was a mingled courtesy and composure in the speaker’s manner which was as far removed as possible from that strained effort at self-possession which marks suppressed passion or secret fear; while in the vacant look with which she met these words there was neither anger nor scorn nor indeed any of the passions one would expect to see there. The detective consequently did not force the situation, but only watched her more and more attentively till her eyes fell and she crouched away from them both. Then he said:
“You can name this gentleman, can you not, Miss Oliver, even if he does not choose to recognize you?”
But her answer, if she made one, was inaudible, and the sole result which Mr. Gryce obtained from this venture was a quick look from Mr. Van Burnam and the following uncompromising words from his lips:
“If you think this young girl knows me, or that I know her, you are greatly mistaken. She is as much of a stranger to me as I am to her, and I take this opportunity of saying so. I hope my liberty and good name are not to be made dependent upon the word of a miserable waif like this.”
“Your liberty and your good name will depend upon your innocence,” retorted Mr. Gryce, and said no more, feeling himself at a disadvantage before the imperturbability of this man and the silent, non-accusing attitude of this woman, from the shock of whose passions he had anticipated so much and obtained so little.
Meantime they were moving rapidly towards Police Headquarters, and fearing that the sight of that place might alarm Miss Oliver more than was well for her, he strove again to rouse her by a kindly word or so. But it was useless. She evidently tried to pay attention and follow the words he used, but her thoughts were too busy over the one great subject that engrossed her.
“A bad case!” murmured Mr. Van Burnam, and with the phrase seemed to dismiss all thought of her.
“A bad case!” echoed Mr. Gryce, “but,” seeing how fast the look of resolution was replacing her previous aspect of frenzy, “one that will do mischief yet to the man who has deceived her.”
The stopping of the carriage roused her. Looking up, she spoke for the first time.
“I want a police officer,” she said.
Mr. Gryce, with all his assurance restored, leaped to the ground and held out his hand.
“I will take you into the presence of one,” said he; and she, without a glance at Mr. Van Burnam, whose knee she brushed in passing, leaped to the ground, and turned her face towards Police Headquarters.
CHAPTER XXXVII
“TWO WEEKS!”
But before she was well in, her countenance changed.
“No,” said she, “I want to think first. Give me time to think. I dare not say a word without thinking.”
“Truth needs no consideration. If you wish to denounce this man—”
Her look said she did.
“Then now is the time.”
She gave him a sharp glance; the first she had bestowed upon him since leaving Miss Althorpe’s.
“You are no doctor,” she declared. “Are you a police-officer?”
“I am a detective.”
“Oh!” and she hesitated for a moment, shrinking from him with very natural distrust and aversion. “I have been in the toils then without knowing it; no wonder I am caught. But I am no criminal, sir; and if you are the one most in authority here, I beg the privilege of a few words with you before I am put into confinement.”
“I will take you before the Superintendent,” said Mr. Gryce. “But do you wish to go alone? Shall not Mr. Van Burnam accompany you?”
“Mr. Van Burnam?”
“Is it not he you wish to denounce?”
“I do not wish to denounce any one today.”
“What do you wish?” asked Mr. Gryce.
“Let me see the man who has power to hold me here or let me go, and I will tell him.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Gryce, and led her
into the presence of the Superintendent.
She was at this moment quite a different person from what she had been in the carriage. All that was girlish in her aspect or appealing in her bearing had faded away, evidently forever, and left in its place something at once so desperate and so deadly, that she seemed not only a woman but one of a very determined and dangerous nature. Her manner, however, was quiet, and it was only in her eye that one could see how near she was to frenzy.
She spoke before the Superintendent could address her.
“Sir,” said she, “I have been brought here on account of a fearful crime I was unhappy enough to witness. I myself am innocent of that crime, but, so far as I know, there is no other person living save the guilty man who committed it, who can tell you how or why or by whom it was done. One man has been arrested for it and another has not. If you will give me two weeks of complete freedom, I will point out to you which is the veritable man of blood, and may Heaven have mercy on his soul!”
“She is mad,” signified the Superintendent in by-play to Mr. Gryce.
But the latter shook his head; she was not mad yet.
“I know,” she continued, without a hint of the timidity which seemed natural to her under other circumstances, “that this must seem a presumptuous request from one like me, but it is only by granting it that you will ever be able to lay your hand on the murderer of Mrs. Van Burnam. For I will never speak if I cannot speak in my own way and at my own time. The agonies I have suffered must have some compensation. Otherwise I should die of horror and my grief.”
“And how do you hope to gain compensation by this delay?” expostulated the Superintendent. “Would you not meet with more satisfaction in denouncing him here and now before he can pass another night in fancied security?”
But she only repeated: “I have said two weeks, and two weeks I must have. Two weeks in which to come and go as I please. Two weeks!” And no argument they could advance succeeded in eliciting from her any other response or in altering in any way her air of quiet determination with its underlying suggestion of frenzy.
The Anna Katharine Green Mystery Megapack Page 27
