the letter, if genuine, was definitely condemning. And it was genuine, beyond a doubt. Anne had certainly received that letter on Friday. The letter stated that after the committee meeting that same night was the time for some preconcerted plan to be carried out. That the plan was a dangerous one was proved by the wording of the letter. And it was shortly after that committee meeting that David Van Wyck had died a violent death.
I forced myself to face the matter squarely. Not because I believed it, but merely as a necessary argument, I accepted the implication that the letter conveyed. Then it would mean that Anne had an accomplice, or at least an advisor in the matter.
Who could the accomplice be? But my mind refused to work in that direction, and I resolutely pushed the matter out of my mind and began to think what I could do to help and protect Anne if she should be accused. I almost thought of urging her to run away with me while she yet had opportunity to escape.
And as my thoughts were in this turmoil, Anne herself came walking along the path near me.
Her soft, trailing black garments made her beautiful face seem whiter than ever.
“Sit down, Raymond,” she said, as I rose; “talk to me a little, can’t you? I feel dazed and weak.”
Surely this was no time to ask questions, so I talked to her gently, on casual subjects, and after a time the conversation veered around to the tragedy.
“I felt a premonition something would happen that night,” said Anne, her large, dark eyes growing misty with the memory. “I was so restless I couldn’t go to bed, and I wrote letters and read until quite late.”
“What were you reading, Anne?”
“I was looking through a book about rose growing. The gardener had been asking me about some new varieties he had just bought. I’m interested in such things, and the book was well written. But I never want to see it again,—or a rose either.”
There was a look of horror in her eyes, and I felt that the rose-book brought back the scenes of that dreadful night so poignantly that she could scarcely bear it.
I changed the subject, and persistently led her mind away from the scene of the tragedy.
“You always do me so much good, Raymond,” Anne said, gratefully, as at last we started back to the house; “you always know just what to say to me. You’re a real comfort”
“You need and deserve comfort, Anne,” I said, gently, “and I think you know you may always depend upon me to give you all I can. And, Anne, if you ever want more of me,—if you want real assistance,—or if you want to confide in me,—you will do so, won’t you?”
She turned to me with a startled look. “Why what do you mean?” she asked, and her voice quivered, and she almost gasped for breath.
I looked her straight in the eyes. “I don’t mean anything,” I said, “except that I am your friend through any circumstance that may come to you. In any trouble or danger,—count on me.”
“Even if I have been wicked?” said Anne, in a whisper.
“Yes, even then,” but a pang shot through my heart, not so much because of the words she said, as the look of horror and despair that came into her eyes.
The days went by slowly. On Monday the funeral was held, and with appropriate obsequies the body of David Van Wyck was buried. The house guests had all chosen to remain at Buttonwood Terrace, in response to Anne’s urgent invitation that we should do so. She seemed to have a dread of being left alone with her step-children, and it became more and more evident that matters were far from harmonious between her and David Van Wyck’s son and daughter.
The day after the funeral I had a long talk with Mr. Markham.
“There is no doubt in my mind,” he declared, “that Mrs. Van Wyck is the guilty party. We never can fasten the crime upon her, for it cannot be explained how she left the room locked up. But it must be that she did do so in some clever way.”
“But there isn’t any such way,” I objected. “If it were the mere turning of a key, it might be done from the other side, but heavy bolts cannot be shot into their sockets except by a person on the inside of the room. And again, waiving the mystery of the locked room, we are as well justified in suspecting Morland or Barbara as Anne.”
“That is true,” agreed Markham. “But the stiletto was found in her room, and her maid is missing, and then there is that mysterious letter. That mystery must be sifted out. To my mind it would be better to put the question plainly to Mrs. Van Wyck and ask her what it means.”
“I wish you’d try some other way first,” I said. “What’s the use of being a detective, if you can’t trace a letter to its source without asking anybody. Why, if Fleming Stone saw that letter he’d soon tell you who wrote it and what it all meant”
Mr. Markham didn’t like this speech, and I didn’t blame him. I daresay I ought not to have said it. But he had so little of what is known as the detective method that I couldn’t help speaking my mind.
“Well, I’ll tell you one thing I think about it,” he said, “that is, whoever wrote that letter to Mrs. Van Wyck, was certainly her accomplice. Now who could that be, but that valet, Carstairs? He has acted queer from the beginning, and I’m going to hunt him up and make him tell all he knows.”
“Carstairs!” I exclaimed in amazement. “You don’t think Mrs. Van Wyck would stoop to receiving letters from a servant!”
“If Mrs. Van Wyck has stooped to crime, or participation in crime, she cannot be very particular about her associates.”
“But she hasn’t stooped to crime! Good heavens, man, don’t condemn her unheard!” But even as I spoke, I remembered that Anne had asked me if I would stand by her even if she were wicked! And I had said I would. Yes, and I would, too, even if she were convicted of the worst crime in the calendar!
I don’t know whether it was because of my reference to Stone or not, but Markham seemed to acquire new energy. He announced with great determination that he was going to find out about that letter, whatever method he might have to pursue.
And it was partly to divert his sudden energy from this subject, that I proposed again that we should make search for Jeannette.
“Strange about Jeannette,” I observed. “Suppose we set out to trace her. That would be at least a step in the right direction.”
“There have been very few steps taken in any direction,” said the detective moodily. “My own movements are hampered by orders from the family. Of course there’s no one to say what I shall do, except Mrs. Van Wyck and her two step-children. And every direction in which I wish to investigate is forbidden by one or another of those three. Sometimes I think they are all in connivance, and their inharmonious attitude toward one another is a mere bluff.”
This was a new idea to me, and I pondered it. But I couldn’t think it a true theory, and said so.
“Maybe not, maybe not,” said Markham; “but they do act mighty queer. Miss Barbara, for instance, begged me if I found any clues which might incriminate her brother, to suppress them and tell nobody.”
“Did she really suppose that you would do that?” I asked.
“Yes, she was very much in earnest. But I haven’t found anything that points to Morland definitely. If I did, I’d show it up fast enough.”
“I should hope so,” I returned emphatically. “I’d far rather suspect Morland of his father’s death than Mrs. Van Wyck.”
“Yes, so should I. But it’s a mystery, whichever way one turns. I can’t seem to make any start. But, as you say, Mr. Sturgis, it would be a good idea to hunt for that maid.”
It proved not to be a difficult matter to find Jeannette, for we soon discovered that she had gone to stay with her sister in a neighboring village. I couldn’t help thinking that Anne had known all along where the girl was,