Lost Man's Lane: A Second Episode in the Life of Amelia Butterworth

by Anna Katharine Green

  XXIII

  ROOM 3, HOTEL CARTER

  I rose at my usual hour. I dressed myself with my usual care. I was, toa superficial observer at least, in all respects my usual self whenHannah came to my door to ask what she could do for me. As there wasnothing I wanted but to get out of this house, which had becomeunbearable to me, I replied with the utmost cheerfulness that my wantswere all supplied and that I would soon be down, at which she answeredthat in that case she must bestir herself or the breakfast would not beready, and hurried away.

  There was no one in the dining-room when I entered, and judging fromappearances that several minutes must elapse before breakfast would beready, I took occasion to stroll through the grounds and glance up atthe window of William's room. The knot of crape was gone.

  I would have gone farther, but just then I heard a great rushing andscampering, and, looking up, saw an enormous dog approaching at fullgallop from the stables. Saracen was loose.

  I did not scream or give way to other feminine expressions of fear, butI did return as quickly as possible to the house, where I now saw I mustremain till William chose to take me into town.

  This I was determined should take place as soon after breakfast aspracticable. The knowledge which I now possessed warranted, nay,demanded, instant consultation with the police, and as this could bestbe effected by following out the orders I had received from Mr. Gryce, Idid not consider any other plan than that of meeting the man on duty inRoom No. 3 at the hotel.

  Loreen, Lucetta, and William were awaiting me in the hall, and made noapology for the flurry into which I had been thrown by my rapid escapefrom Saracen. Indeed I doubt if they noticed it, for with all theattempt they made to seem gay and at ease, the anxieties and fatigue ofthe foregoing nights were telling upon them, and from Miss Knollys down,they looked physically exhausted. But they also looked mentallyrelieved. In the clear depths of Lucetta's eye there was now nowavering, and the head which was always turning in anxious anticipationover her shoulder rested firm, though not as erect as her sister's, whohad less cause perhaps for regret and sorrow.

  William was joyful to a degree, but it was a forced joviality which onlybecame real when he heard a sudden, quick bark under the window and thesound of scraping paws against the mastic coating of the wall outside.Then he broke out into a loud laugh of unrestrained pleasure, crying outthoughtlessly:

  "There's Saracen. How quick he knows----"

  A warning look from Lucetta stopped him.

  "I mean," he stammered, "it's a dull dog that cannot find his master.Miss Butterworth, you will have to overcome your fear of dogs if youstay with us long. Saracen is unbound this morning, and"--he used agreat oath--"he's going to remain so."

  By which I came to understand that it was not out of consideration forme he had been tied up in the court till now, but for reasons connectedwith their own safety and the preservation of the secret which they soevidently believed had been buried with the body, which I did not liketo remember lay at that very minute too nearly under our feet for my ownindividual comfort.

  However, this has nothing to do with the reply I made to William.

  "I hope he does not run with the buggy," I objected. "I want to take aride very much this morning and could get small pleasure out of it ifthat dog must be our companion."

  "I cannot go out this morning," William began, but changed his sentence,possibly at the touch of his sister's foot under the table, into: "Butif you say I must, why, I must. You women folks are so plaguedunreasonable."

  Had he been ten years younger I would have boxed his ears; had he beenthat much older I would have taken cue and packed my trunk before hecould have finished the cup of coffee he was drinking. But he was justtoo old to reprimand in the way just mentioned, and not old enough toappreciate any display of personal dignity or self-respect on the partof the person he had offended. Besides, he was a knave; so I just lethis impertinence pass with the remark:

  "I have purchases to make in the village": and so that matter ended,manifestly to the two girls' relief, who naturally did not like to seeme insulted, even if they did not possess sufficient power over theirbrother to prevent it.

  One other small episode and then I will take you with me to the village.As we were leaving the table, where I ate less than common,notwithstanding all my efforts to seem perfectly unconcerned, Lucetta,who had waited for her brother to go out, took me gently by the arm,and, eying me closely, said:

  "Did you have any dreams last night, Miss Butterworth? You know Ipromised you some."

  The question disconcerted me, and for a moment I felt like taking thetwo girls into my confidence and bidding them fly from the shame anddoom so soon to fall upon their brother; but the real principleunderlying all such momentary impulses on my part deterred me, and in aslight a tone as I could command and not be an absolute hypocrite, Ireplied that I was sorry to disappoint her, but I had had no dreams,which seemed to please her more than it should, for if I had had nodreams I certainly had suffered from the most frightful realities.

  I will not describe our ride into town. Saracen did go with us, andindignation not only rendered me speechless, but gave to my thoughts aturn which made that half-hour of very little value to me. Mother Jane'sburly figure crouching in her doorway might otherwise have given meopportunity for remark, and so might the dubious looks of people we meton the highroad--looks to which I am so wholly unaccustomed that I haddifficulty in recognizing myself as the butt of so much doubt andpossibly dislike. I attributed this, however, all to the ill reputeunder which William so deservedly labored, and did not allow myself tomore than notice it. Indeed, I could only be sorry for people who didnot know in what consideration I was held at home, and who, eitherthrough ignorance or prejudice, allowed themselves privileges they wouldbe the first to regret did they know the heart and mind of AmeliaButterworth.

  Once in the village, I took the direction of affairs.

  "Set me down at the hotel," I commanded, "and then go about suchbusiness as you may have here in town. I am not going to allow myself tobe tracked all over by that dog."

  "I have no business," was the surly reply.

  "Then make some," was my sharp retort. "I want to see thelocksmith--that locksmith who wouldn't come to do an honest piece ofwork for me in your house; and I want to buy dimities and wools andsewing silks at the dry-goods store over there. Indeed I have a thousandthings to do, and expect to spend half the morning before the counters.Why, man, I haven't done any shopping for a week."

  He gaped at me perfectly aghast (as I meant he should), and, having butlittle experience of city ladies, took me at my word and prepared tobeat an honorable retreat. As a result, I found myself ten minutes laterstanding on the top step of the hotel porch, watching William drivingaway with Saracen perched on the seat beside him. Then I realized thatthe village held no companions for him, and did not know whether I feltglad or sorry.

  To the clerk who came to meet me, I said quietly, "Room No. 3, if youplease," at which he gave a nod of intelligence and led me asunostentatiously as possible into a small hall, at the end of which Isaw a door with the aforesaid number on it.

  "If you will take a seat inside," said he, "I will send you whatever youmay desire for your comfort."

  "I think you know what that is," I rejoined, at which he nodded againand left me, closing the door carefully behind him as he went.

  The few minutes which elapsed before my quiet was disturbed were spentby me in thinking. There were many little questions to settle in my ownmind, for which a spell of uninterrupted contemplation was necessary.One of these was whether, in the event of finding the police amenable, Ishould reveal or hide from these children of my old friend, the factthat it was through my instrumentality that their nefarious secret hadbeen discovered. I wished--nay, I hoped--that the affair might be soconcluded, but the possibility of doing so seemed so problematical,especially since Mr. Gryce was not on hand to direct matters, that Ispent very little time on the subject, deep and import
ant as it was toall concerned.

  What most occupied me was the necessity of telling my story in such away as to exonerate the girls as much as possible. They were mistaken intheir devotion and most unhappy in the exercise of it, but they were notinnately wicked and should not be made to appear so. Perhaps the onething for which I should yet have the best cause to congratulate myself,would be the opportunity I had gained of giving to their connection withthis affair its true and proper coloring.

  I was still dwelling on this thought when there came a knock at my doorwhich advised me that the visitor I expected had arrived. To open andadmit him was the work of a moment, but it took more than a moment forme to overcome my surprise at seeing in my visitor no lesser person thanMr. Gryce himself, who in our parting interview had assured me he wastoo old and too feeble for further detective work and must thereforedelegate it to me.

  "Ah!" I ejaculated slowly. "It is you, is it? Well, I am not surprised."(I shouldn't have been.) "When you say you are old, you mean old enoughto pull the wool over other people's eyes, and when you say you arelame, you mean that you only halt long enough to let others get farenough ahead for them not to see how fast you hobble up behind them. Butdo not think I am not happy to see you. I am, Mr. Gryce, for I havediscovered the secret of Lost Man's Lane, and find it somewhat too heavya one for my own handling."

  To my surprise he showed this was more than he expected.

  "You have?" he asked, with just that shade of incredulity which it is sotantalizing to encounter. "Then I suppose congratulations are in order.But are you sure, Miss Butterworth, that you really have obtained a clueto the many strange and fearful disappearances which have given to thislane its name?"

  "Quite sure," I returned, nettled. "Why do you doubt it? Because I havekept so quiet and not sounded one note of alarm from my whistle?"

  "No," said he. "Knowing your self-restraint so well, I cannot say thatthat is my reason."

  "What is it, then?" I urged.

  "Well," said he, "my real reason for doubting if you have been quite assuccessful as you think, is that we ourselves have come upon a clueabout which there can be no question. Can you say the same of yours?"

  You will expect my answer to have been a decided "Yes," uttered with allthe positiveness of which you know me capable. But for some reason,perhaps because of the strange influence this man's personalityexercises upon all--yes, all--who do not absolutely steel themselvesagainst him, I faltered just long enough for him to cry:

  "I thought not. The clue is outside the Knollys house, not in it, MissButterworth, for which, of course, you are not to be blamed or yourservices scorned. I have no doubt they have been invaluable inunearthing _a_ secret, if not _the_ secret."

  "Thank you," was my quiet retort. I thought his presumption beyond allbounds, and would at that moment have felt justified in snapping myfingers at the clue he boasted of, had it not been for one thing. Whatthat thing is I am not ready yet to state.

  "You and I have come to issue over such matters before," said he, "andtherefore need not take too much account of the feelings it is likely toengender. I will merely state that my clue points to Mother Jane, andask if you have found in the visit she paid at the house last nightanything which would go to strengthen the suspicion against her."

  "Perhaps," said I, in a state of disdain that was more or lessunpardonable, considering that my own suspicions previous to mydiscovery of the real tragedy enacted under my eyes at the Knollysmansion had played more or less about this old crone.

  "Only perhaps?" He smiled, with a playful forbearance for which I shouldhave been truly grateful to him.

  "She was there for no good purpose," said I, "and yet if you had notcharacterized her as the person most responsible for the crimes we arehere to investigate, I should have said from all that I then saw of herconduct that she acted as a supernumerary rather than principal, andthat it is to me you should look for the correct clue to the criminal,notwithstanding your confidence in your own theories and my momentaryhesitation to assert that there was no possible defect in mine."

  "Miss Butterworth,"--I thought he looked a trifle shaken,--"what didMother Jane do in that closely shuttered house last night?"

  Mother Jane? Well! Did he think I was going to introduce my tragic storyby telling what Mother Jane did? I must have looked irritated, andindeed I think I had cause.

  "Mother Jane ate her supper," I snapped out angrily. "Miss Knollys gaveit to her. Then she helped a little with a piece of work they had onhand. It will not interest you to know what. It has nothing to do withyour clue, I warrant."

  He did not get angry. He has an admirable temper, has Mr. Gryce, but hedid stop a minute to consider.

  "Miss Butterworth," he said at last, "most detectives would have heldtheir peace and let you go on with what you have to tell without a hintthat it was either unwelcome or unnecessary, but I have considerationfor persons' feelings and for persons' secrets so long as they do notcome in collision with the law, and my opinion is, or was when I enteredthis room, that such discoveries as you have made at your old friend'shouse" (Why need he emphasize friend--did he think I forgot for a momentthat Althea was my friend?) "were connected rather with some familydifficulty than with the dreadful affair we are considering. That is whyI hastened to tell you that we had found a clue to the disappearances inMother Jane's cottage. I wished to save the Misses Knollys."

  If he had thought to mollify me by this assertion, he did not succeed.He saw it and made haste to say:

  "Not that I doubt your consideration for them, only the justness of yourconclusions."

  "You have doubted those before and with more reason," I replied, "yetthey were not altogether false."

  "That I am willing to acknowledge, so willing that if you still thinkafter I have told my story that yours is _apropos_, then I will listento it only too eagerly. My object is to find the real criminal in thismatter. I say at the present moment it is Mother Jane."

  "God grant you are right," I said, influenced in spite of myself by thecalm assurance of his manner. "If she was at the house night before lastbetween eleven and twelve, then perhaps she is all you think her. But Isee no reason to believe it--not yet, Mr. Gryce. Supposing you give meone. It would be better than all this controversy. One small reason, Mr.Gryce, as good as"--I did not say what, but the fillip it gave to hisintention stood me in good stead, for he launched immediately into thematter with no further play upon my curiosity, which was now, as you canbelieve, thoroughly aroused, though I could not believe that anything hehad to bring up against Mother Jane could for a moment stand against thedeath and the burial I had witnessed in Miss Knollys' house during thetwo previous nights.