present surrounds the death of Mr. Van Wyck. This incident you saw, may have a bearing on the matter, and it may not But won’t you promise me not to speak of it to anyone else? And at the coroner’s inquest, which will be held this afternoon, won’t you tell this story simply and straightforwardly, as you have told it to me?”
“At the inquest!” Miss Fordyce exclaimed; “oh, I just couldn’t!”
“Yes, you can!” I answered her, sternly, “and you must. If you do it rightly, you may be of great help to the whole Van Wyck family; while, if you are foolish about it, you may impede justice and cause untold trouble.”
“There, I told you so!” cried Mrs. Stelton. “I knew it was important Now, Beth, you come along with me. I’ll see to it, Mr. Sturgis, that this girl tells her story and tells it right, when she is called upon to do so.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stelton,” I said, heartily, and I had never liked the little lady so well before. “Keep Miss Fordyce up to the mark and don’t let her slip away into her dreams and visions.”
The two went away together, and I started off for a stroll by myself, to see what a little fresh air would do towards straightening out the complex questions that were baffling my brain.
Chapter VIII.
Enter, a Detective
I walked along the paths, my eyes cast down, and my hands behind me, while I brooded over the situation. I had the grace to be utterly ashamed of the fact, that beneath all other considerations, I was conscious of a realization that Anne was now free. I would not allow myself to put this thought into words; I tried to evade and ignore it; but it brought a peace to my soul that shone steadily through all the disturbing problems that filled my consciousness.
First, was the great problem of Van Wyck’s death. Was it suicide or murder? And then I thought, how futile even to wonder about that, until the inquest, when unexpected disclosures might immediately solve the mystery.
Next was the problem of what Anne would do. But that, it seemed to me, was an indelicacy even to think about, at present. So I resolutely put it away from me, and turned my thoughts to the story Beth Fordyce had told. It was certainly strange that a motor should come into the Van Wyck estate at midnight, and that it should alternately halt and proceed in such a mysterious manner. Also that its entrance and disappearance should be followed by the presence of a stealthy, cloaked figure.
But again, was Beth Fordyce’s word reliable? I had no doubt of her integrity;—but the girl had such strange fancies and such a vivid imagination, that I could not place implicit reliance on the story as she had told it.
To her distorted mental vision, a belated pedestrian might assume the mystery of a prowling marauder. And yet, she had said the figure passed under her window, which would of course mean some one intending, either rightly or wrongfully, to enter the house. And, too, the strange proceedings of the motor car,—though perhaps exaggerated by her,—could scarcely be all imagination, unless the girl had wilfully made up this story, which I did not believe.
But again, if the occupant of the motor car had indeed been a criminal,—a thief and a murderer,—with fell intent against David Van Wyck, how had he entered the study, committed his crimes, and departed again, leaving, every outlet of the room securely fastened on the inside?
This question proved unanswerable, so I gave it up and began to retrace my steps toward the house.
As I neared the stables, I noticed a man coming along the same road that I had seen Mrs. Carstairs slowly following, early that same morning. I paused a moment to watch him, and I saw that it was Carstairs, the valet. To my surprise, he repeated exactly the procedure of his mother. He stepped along slowly, carefully examining the ground, and had every appearance of a man searching for some small, lost article. He had a stick in his hand, and he even scraped the dirt of the road now and then, peering closely, as if in a desperate search.
I determined to come upon him suddenly, as I had surprised his mother, and see if he were as apt at explaining himself as she had been.
I approached very quietly, and as I was just at his elbow, I said, “What have you lost?”
The man dropped his stick, and raised a white, startled face.
“N-nothing,—sir. I assure you,—I have lost nothing!”
“What are you looking for, then? I will help you find it!”
I picked up the stick he had dropped, and began poking in the dust, myself. But he said, stammering, and with a pleading expression:
“N-no! I have not lost anything, sir. Give me back my stick, I beg of you.”
“Look here, Carstairs, it’s no crime to lose anything. But to be so secret about it, and so rattled, betokens a guilty conscience of some sort”
“Yes, sir; very good, sir. I’m not rattled, sir,—and indeed, indeed, sir, I have not lost anything.”
Clearly the man had not his mother’s faculty for rising to a situation. Without a doubt they had both been searching for the same thing, as I saw them both closely examining the ground in the same place. But she had tossed off my questions with witty repartee, while he was the embodiment of agonized embarrassment.
I went on toward the house, with a new problem added to my brain collection,—the problem of the two searchers, who both denied having lost anything, and who were mother and son. Collusion and secrecy were certainly shown here. I had no clue to the solution of this mystery, and thought that very likely it was a matter of no importance, anyway.
When I reached the house, Barbara met me with the welcome news that Anne desired to see me. I was conducted to her dressing-room, and as I entered, I realized the truth of what I had been told regarding the Van Wycks’ apartments. A more exquisite gem of a room, I never saw. It was furnished entirely in Louis Seize effects and was a miracle of gilded carving and rose-colored brocade.
“And you call this a dressing-room!” I said, endeavoring to be casual; “I think boudoir a more appropriate term.”
Anne smiled. “I hate a French word,” she said, “when English will do as well. And I especially dislike the term ‘sitting-room,’ so what could I do? And it is my dressing-room, as you see.” She waved her hand toward a daintily appointed toilet-table, glittering with glass and gold.
I scarcely knew whether to continue the conversation on trivial matters, or whether to speak of the tragedy. Anne herself was perfectly composed; though pale, and with an air of forcing herself to be quiet and natural.
But after a few moments of beating time, I said, “Let’s not evade the subject that fills both our minds. May we not speak of it?”
“How nice you are!” said Anne, and her eyes beamed with gratitude. “You always do the right thing, Raymond. My heart is bursting to talk of these things, yet everyone thinks I don’t want to!”
“Talk to me,” I said, gently, “just as you will. Say anything that is in your heart.”
I was on dangerous ground, and I knew it, but I held myself well in hand. Anne looked lovelier than ever, in a white lacy sort of boudoir gown and a lace cap on her beautiful hair. Also she looked pathetic and as if greatly in need of some one to lean on for sympathy and counsel.
“Let us talk it over freely,” I said; “you cannot be brave and courageous, Anne, as you must be, if you are afraid to face the facts. You don’t think your husband took his own life, do you?”
“I’m sure he did not. David had no reason for such an act. He was a man fond of life; and beside, he had this project of the library in mind, and he was more than anxious to carry it through. There is no reason,—there can be no reason,—why he should kill himself. But Raymond,” and her white brows drew tensely,