“Because what?” I gently prompted her.
A look of pain came into her eyes, followed by a sudden determination; and she went on: “I may as well tell you; because my husband and I have had some fearful quarrels. Invariably he would go and shut himself in the study afterward. I knew it was my duty to try to make peace with him and often I have tried to get into the study in spite of him. I have even tried to get in at a window, while he would sit inside and smile at me in mockery.”
“What you have been through with that man!” I exclaimed.
“Yes; and yet he was often very good to me. At times he was a perfect brute, but it was because of his really ungovernable temper. Then again he would fairly spoil me with kindness. But of late his kindness had become more and more rare, and he was sarcastic and cruel much of the time. I tell you this, Raymond, because I want you to understand, that while I respected and admired David in many ways, I cannot mourn him as I would mourn a man I loved.”
This admission brought joy to my own heart, but I knew this was no time or place to let it be known, and as a matter of precaution, I hurriedly changed the subject.
“What a strange woman Mrs. Carstairs is,” I said; “had she an especial interest in Mr. Van Wyck?”
“Oh, she adored him,” and Anne spoke carelessly as if it were a matter of no moment to her. “At one time she hoped to marry him, but David had no such intention. So of course she resented my presence here, and has never been nice to me. It didn’t bother me much, though she is annoying. I tried to have her dismissed, but Carstairs is such a perfect valet, David would not give him up, so they both remained. Now they can both go!”
Anne spoke with a sudden vindictiveness, and just at that moment Mrs. Carstairs appeared in the open doorway. Her arrival was so opportune that I felt positive she had been listening outside the door. She did not seem angry, but there was a feline note in her voice as she said, “You were speaking of me, Mrs. Van Wyck?”
It is a tribute to Anne’s wonderful poise that she was in no way ruffled. She spoke quietly, as she replied, “Yes, Mrs. Carstairs, since you chanced to overhear, I am quite willing to repeat what I said. As there is no longer any occasion for your son’s services, you will doubtless prefer to go away with him. But I beg you will consult your own pleasure as to the time of your departure, and not feel obliged to make inconvenient haste.”
It was a clash of superior forces. If Anne showed self-control, the housekeeper was even more absolutely at ease.
“Thank you, Mrs. Van Wyck,” she returned, in silvery tones; “I shall take advantage of your kind permission, and remain here, at least until we have discovered the solution of the mystery that surrounds the death of Mr. Van Wyck. It may be that I can be of assistance to you.”
“I scarcely think that,” and Anne’s slight smile would have rasped a saint; “but you are at liberty to stay as long as you choose.”
The latter part of the speech was almost patronizing, and distinctly in the manner of a mistress to a servant, and it scored. Mrs. Carstairs’s eyes flashed, and she winced as if flicked with a whip; but in an instant she had dropped her eyelids, and though she merely said “Thank you,” and left the room, her air was so unvanquished, even victorious, that she really had the final word.
“You see,” said Anne, spreading her hands, deprecatingly, “one cannot contend with that sort of thing, except between equals!”
“I appreciate that perfectly,” I returned, very seriously; “but you must realize, Anne, that she is a dangerous woman. You are no match for her; because, though you have marvellous perceptions and mental powers, yet you are innocent and right-minded. That woman is all wrong. I don’t know in what respects,—I don’t know anything about her. But she is capable of crime!”
To my consternation, Anne turned white to the very lips. She put her hands before her eyes as if to shut out some dreadful sight, and she moaned in a whisper, “Oh, Raymond, I am capable of crime, too!”
“There, there,” I said, soothingly, “that woman has wrought on your nerves. For that matter, child, everybody is capable of crime. I had no business to say what I did. I’m a churl,—a mischief-maker.”
Anne lifted her eyes and almost smiled at my self-abasement, and then, as her maid entered the room, she said, “What is it, Jeannette?”
“Mr. Archer, madame. He wishes to see you.”
“Tell him to come in,” said Anne, graciously, and then herself added, “Come on in, Connie. There’s no one here but Mr. Sturgis.”
Archer came in, looking preoccupied. With scant ceremony he threw himself into a chair, and said abruptly: “Now, look here, Anne, how about this detective? Do you want him to come?”
“No,” said Anne, simply.
“I thought so. Now Mellen has sent for him, and unless we telephone contrary orders or something, he’ll be here to-day.”
“Why don’t you want him, Anne?” I asked, in astonishment. “I think it is necessary to have him. The mystery must be cleared up, and, too the missing pearls must be found. Surely a detective could help.”
“Well, then, let him come!” Anne spoke almost pettishly, and I suddenly realized that her composure was forced, and her self-control was beginning to give way.
“I think,” said Archer to me, “that Mrs. Van Wyck’s wishes should be law in this matter.”
“Of course,” I agreed, “but perhaps Mrs. Van Wyck doesn’t realize how customary it is, and how necessary it is to employ a detective in such a case as this.”
“I needn’t see him, need I?” asked Anne, raising imploring eyes to mine.
“No,” I began, when Archer interrupted: “Of course you’ll have to see him, and he’ll ask you all sorts of questions, and tangle you up so that you won’t know what you’re saying.”
As usual, Anne did the unexpected. She suddenly assumed a dignified, even haughty air, and said: “Let him come. Let him question me as much as he likes. I’m not afraid of such questioning! When will he arrive?”
“I don’t know,” said Archer, “probably this afternoon, or perhaps before luncheon. I’m glad you’re getting your nerve back, Anne, for the inquest will be held this afternoon, and you will have to testify. Now don’t let yourself get rattled.”
“I shall not get rattled,” Anne said, slowly. “But, Connie, I don’t want to testify, or whatever you call it. Why should I? I don’t know who killed David, or anything about it.”
“But you will be called on,” said Archer, “and you must keep your head. Don’t break down or anything. Answer the questions directly and shortly, and you’ll soon be let off.”
This was good, sound advice, and I was glad Archer gave it to her. I wished she would look to me more for counsel or help, but she seemed to depend on Archer, as on an old friend. Indeed, after a time, she said, “Run away now, will you, Raymond; I have some things I want to talk over with Connie alone.”
This summary dismissal nearly took my breath away, but I rose and went off nonchalantly, hiding my chagrin as best I could.
Immediately after luncheon the detective came. Mr. Markham was a commonplace-looking man, of a manner somewhat self-assured. He was perhaps even a trifle conceited, but he seemed to have commonsense and a good grasp of the logical. He was quick and alert of manner and went about his work in a systematic and methodical way. The household was divided as to the necessity for his presence. Morland and Barbara seemed to want him, but Anne and Archer refused to see him unless absolutely necessary.
For some reason, Barclay Lasseter appeared deeply incensed at his presence. Indeed, the secretary abruptly took his hat and went home when Mr. Markham arrived, saying he would return for the inquest.
For myself, I