to his own home, and kept her there, safely out of the reach of gossip, until she went out to Colorado to live with her sister. Her nerves were shattered, and she begged so piteously that she might not be obliged to enter Maxwell Chimneys again, that her wishes were willingly respected. The rest of us remained at the house until the sister, Hannah, came to take charge of affairs, and to take Miss Miranda home with her.
"It is a case," I said to Irene Gardiner, "which proves your theory—the murder of Philip Maxwell was brought about solely by opportunity.
"My chance remark to Mr. Maxwell that the young people were in the library; the inadvertent snatching up of Gilbert's coat; the fact that the goggles and cap were in the pocket; the fact that Philip's uncle had a weapon with him—all these things form tiny links in a strong chain of opportunity."
"But the evil impulse must have been in his heart, or he would never have taken advantage of this opportunity," said Irene, unconsciously refuting a theory she had herself advanced.
"I would rather not think," said Fleming Stone, in his sweet, serious voice, "that opportunity creates a sinner, or even that it creates an evil impulse. I would rather believe—and I do believe—that opportunity only warms into action an evil impulse that is lying dormant; and I do not believe that dormant evil impulse is in everybody."
"Nor do I," said Irene; "it would be a sad world, indeed, if that were true. And yet," she looked at me, "I confess I used to think so. But I have learned much in the last few weeks, and I realize how difficult it is to judge what anyone would do or would not do upon occasion. And yet I would rather believe that the evil impulse was created in Mr. Maxwell's mind by the especial opportunity, than to think he had all his life been a man capable of crime."
"Perhaps you're right," said Stone; "and after all, it makes little difference. The thing is to have a strong enough character or will to resist any evil impulse or any special opportunity that may present itself. And that no one can declare he possesses, until he has been tried and proven. But let us be thankful that the opportunities are comparatively rare and the natures that succumb to them are rarer still."
"It is a satisfaction to realize that," I returned, "but that very knowledge makes it seem all the more strange and sad that an exceptional case should be this of Alexander Maxwell."
ANYBODY BUT ANNE
IV. The Decision of David Van Wyck
XIV. A Mysterious Disappearance
XVII. The Search for the Pearls
Chapter I.
Buttonwood Terrace
The letter I had just read was signed Anne Mansfield Van Wyck,—and the first two names gave my memory such a fillip, that I sat for a long time, motionless, while my thoughts raced back ten years, and reached their goal in a little suburban town.
The picture which memory so obligingly showed me, in definite detail, was that of two young people saying good-by, somewhat effusively. One of these was an immature version of my present self, and the other was a pigtailed school-girl, who now signed herself, Anne Mansfield Van Wyck. At the time of that dramatic parting, she had been Anne Mansfield, and I, Raymond Sturgis, was leaving her to go to college.
Our farewell promises, though made in all good faith, were never fulfilled; and the barrier of circumstances that time raised between us, had kept us from sight of each other for ten years.
I assumed, when I thought of it at all, that Anne had forgotten me; and though I had not forgotten her, I remembered her only casually, and at long intervals.
I had heard of her marriage to David Van Wyck without poignant regret, but with a feeling of resentment that she should throw herself away on a man so old and eccentric, though a well-known capitalist. And, now, all unexpectedly, I had received an invitation to one of her house parties. It expressed, pleasantly enough, a desire to renew our old-time acquaintance, and asked me to come on Friday for the week-end.
The stationery was correct and rather elegant; the handwriting fashionable and sophisticated,—not at all like the sprawling school-girl hand of ten years ago.
My curiosity was roused to know what Anne would be like as Mrs. Van Wyck, and I accepted the invitation with a pleased sense of regaining an old friend.
As my train swayed swiftly through New England, toward the village of Crescent Falls, where the Van Wycks had their summer residence, I tried to picture to myself the pretty little Anne Mansfield that I had known, as the chatelaine of a great estate, with an elderly husband and two grown-up step-children. The picture was so incongruous that I gave it up, and awaited first impressions with unbiased opinions.
And I may well have done so, for, though I knew of his wealth, I knew nothing of the taste and judgment that had led David Van Wyck to select for his summer home a most beautiful country estate, whose century-old mansion was surrounded by equally old buttonwood trees, a species rapidly growing extinct in New England.
The motor car which brought me from the station swung into the broad avenue that led to the house, and I marvelled that such a home could have been found in America. For it was like an English park; the green lawns rolling