most ill-bred, I consider you unwarrantably intrusive.”
Archer’s manner was distinctly haughty and his tone even offensive, but the rebuke was deserved, and I responded, “You are quite right; I beg your pardon. And now I will tell you why I came. If you don’t mind discussing it, I’d like to know what you make of those conflicting statements of Morland and his father’s secretary, as to which remained in the study last night after the other left.”
Archer considered seriously. “I’ve thought over that, myself,” he said; “and do you know, the thing that most impresses me in connection with that, is that it seems to prove them both innocent of any guilty knowledge of this matter.”
“How so?” I said wonderingly.
“Why because if either of them were guilty,—not that I suspect for a moment that either of them is,—but for the sake of argument, let us suppose it, —or if either of them should be concealing any bit of guilty knowledge, surely he would not so flatly give the other the lie, because he would know that such a course would invite investigation. A man with a guilty conscience is plausible and endeavors to be casual. He never makes such a sensational statement and sticks to it so blatantly.”
“You ought to be a detective yourself, Archer,” I said, looking at him admiringly; “I think you’ve made a very subtle point.”
“I haven’t what are called detective methods,” he returned, “but I do hold that reason and logic are the mainstays of the profession. However, something more is needed. For Markham has reason and logic, and yet I doubt if he will get anywhere. I suppose ingenuity and originality are needed. Of course your Fleming Stone has those. But, Sturgis,” and Archer’s face grew very grave, “do we want to push this matter? Neither of us is willing to voice suspicions as Morland did, but shall we not admit to each other that a cessation of all movement in the matter, might be a good thing?”
“I don’t know, Archer;” and I looked at him thoughtfully; “I see the force of your suggestion, and yet—well, I want to think it over. I’ll ponder on it to-night, and I know you’ll do so. To-morrow let us again exchange ideas.”
Archer agreed to this, though I must confess he didn’t seem greatly impressed with the brilliancy of my plan, and I went off to my own room.
This time I really entered it, and locked the door after me. I threw myself into an arm-chair, and proceeded to my pondering at once. But I may as well admit that my pondering began, not with the mystery of the tragedy, but with the mystery of Archer’s absence from his own room that night. It was all very well for him to say that he was in the bathroom cupboard,—but I couldn’t believe it, for I had looked in there and saw no one. To be sure I didn’t go inside, but Archer could scarcely have been concealed behind the few coats or trousers that were suspended from rods.
Unless he had been in one of his own suit-cases or hat-boxes he couldn’t have been in that closet, and the more I thought about it, the stranger it seemed.
And then the jealousy lurking in my heart gave me a sudden suggestion. Archer’s room was directly over David Van Wyck’s bedroom. Before his marriage, David Van Wyck had used for his own bedroom the very one Archer now occupied. Could there be,—hinted my jealous heart,—a secret staircase connecting the two? Could Archer descend secretly to David Van Wyck’s room, and so gain access to Anne’s apartments?
It was a tawdry thought,—it was melodramatic, —but my heart was like a tinder-box, and the thought had struck a fiendish flame. I didn’t believe it with my brain, but my foolish heart declared it to be the only possible explanation of Archer’s mysterious disappearance.
And then another thought followed it, which made me ashamed of my evil imagination. The dead body of David Van Wyck lay in his own bedroom. Surely no man would descend to that room on a clandestine errand.
So I forced myself to believe Archer had told me the truth, and that he had been in the cupboard, and as soon as he emerged had answered my call. It was a strange circumstance, but not so strange as the bizarre explanation I had conjured up.
Besides, Morland had distinctly stated there was no secret staircase or anything of the sort in the house.
But, urged my unquiet soul, did Morland know? David Van Wyck was quite capable of keeping such a secret to himself.
And then in a sudden practical mood, I seized a pencil and drew a plan of the room as it must be. On the ground floor a corridor ran between David Van Wyck’s room and the south wall of the house, to give access to the study. But as the study was two stories high, having no second floor, there was no occasion for this corridor on the second floor of the house; and in Archer’s room the corresponding space above the corridor, was completely filled by the bathroom and the large clothes cupboard. I knew a little of practical architecture and I proved to myself beyond doubt that there was no space for the concealed staircase I had imagined. The walls of the old house were substantial enough, but they were by no means the thickness of walls necessary to contain secret staircases or dungeons, such as those I loved to read of in Mediaeval history. I could reckon plainly from what I knew of the rooms, just how they connected with each other; and I could account for every inch of space. Moreover, if a secret staircase had led down from the bathroom or the cupboard of Archer’s room, it would have dropped plumb into the corridor below, as there was simply no other place for its outlet. I thought even of a spiral staircase, such as that in the study, at the end of the musician’s gallery. But, I reasoned, that was fully four feet across; and the walls, as I computed them, were in no case more than ten inches thick.
So with a certain feeling of reluctance, and yet with a sense of relief, I gave up the idea of a concealed connection between Archer’s room and the room below, and turned the trend of my ponderings toward the many and complex phases of the greater mystery.
But when I finally fell asleep that night, my dreams were all of rope ladders and secret stairways, and even vague visions of an elopement on a pillioned white palfrey, with a beautiful lady, who strongly resembled Anne Van Wyck.
Chapter XV.
Who Wrote the Letter?
The next day was Sunday. As the inquest was not to be continued, I hoped for a quiet day; but aside from the necessary arrangements for funeral appointments, there seemed to be much going on in the way of investigations. Mr. Markham had developed a tendency to question everybody, right and left, and I continually ran against him interviewing a servant, a guest or a caller.
I hung around somewhat listlessly, hoping to be permitted to see Anne; but Miss Fordyce informed me that Anne refused to see anyone except her two step-children.
I strolled out on the terrace, hoping to have a talk with Archer, but instead, I met Mr. Markham and he proceeded briskly to interview me.
I had no objection to this, as although there were a few things I knew that I intended to keep from him, I was quite willing to give him freely any other information I possessed.
But his talk after all, was a repetition of what I already knew, or a verbose disquisition on his own theories and plans.
As we talked, Mrs. Carstairs came out on the terrace, and after a cautious glance about, she glided up to us, with a mysterious air.
“May I speak to you a minute, Mr. Markham?” she said, and though I disliked and distrusted the woman, I could not help admiring her beauty and grace. She was truly unusual in her charm, and Markham beamed on her with a smile at once admiring and deferential.
“Shall I remain?” I asked,—and for the life of me I couldn’t help speaking kindly to her,—“or do I intrude?”
“Not at all,” she replied; “I should be glad, Mr. Sturgis, for you to hear what I have to say. I am in a dilemma, and I don’t know exactly what I ought to do. I found this,” and she produced a letter, which, with a hesitating air, she offered to Mr.