it was nevertheless true that the removal of the obstacle between Carleton and herself gave her only joy. She tried to hide this. She cleverly simulated grief, horror, surprise, interest,—all the emotions called forth by the conversation, which unavoidably pursued only one course. In fact, Miss Burt took her cue every time from Mrs. Carleton, and expressed opinions that invariably coincided with hers.
It began to dawn upon Fessenden that the girl was unusually clever, the more so, he thought, that she was consciously concealing her cleverness by a cloak of demure innocence, and careful unostentation. Never did she put herself forward; never did she show undue interest in Schuyler, personally.
Fessenden reasoned that the game being now in her own hands, she could afford to stand back and await developments.
Then came the next thought: how came the game so fortuitously into her own hands? Was it, even indirectly, due to her own instigation?
"Pshaw!" he thought to himself. "I'm growing absurdly suspicious. I won't believe wrong of that girl until I have some scrap of a hint to base it on."
And yet he knew in his own heart if Dorothy Burt had wanted to connive in the slightest degree in the removal of her rival, she was quite capable of doing so, notwithstanding her very evident effect of pretty helplessness.
"When an excessively clever young woman assumes an utterly inefficient air," he thought, "it must be for some undeclared purpose;" and he felt an absurd thrill of satisfaction that though Kitty French was undeniably clever, she put on no ingénue arts to hide it.
Then Kitty's phrase of "a clinging rosebud" came to his mind, and he realized its exceeding aptness to describe Dorothy Burt. Her appealing eyes and wistful, curved mouth were enough to lure a man who loved her to almost any deed of daring.
"Even murder?" flashed into his brain, and he recoiled at the thought. Old Schuyler might have been made to forget his fealty; he might have been unable to steel his heart against those subtle charms; he might have thrown to the winds his honor and his faith; but surely, never, never, could he have committed that dreadful deed, even for love of this angel-faced siren.
"Could she?"
The words fairly burned into Fessenden's brain. The sudden thought set his mind whirling. Could she? Why, no, of course not! Absurd! Yes, but could she? What? That child? That baby-girl? Those tiny, rose-leaf hands! Yes, but could she?
"No!" said Fessenden angrily, and then realized that he had spoken aloud, and his hearers were looking at him with indulgent curiosity.
"Forgive me," he said, smiling as he looked at Mrs. Carleton. "My fancy took a short but distant flight, and I had to speak to it sternly by way of reproof."
"I didn't know a lawyer could be fanciful," said Mrs. Carleton. "I thought that privilege was reserved for poets."
"Thank you for a pretty compliment to our profession," said Rob. "We lawyers are too often accused of giving rein to our fancy, when we should be strapped to the saddle of slow but sure Truth."
"But can you arrive anywhere on such a prosaic steed?" asked Miss Burt, smiling at his words.
"Yes," said Rob; "we can arrive at facts."
What prompted him to speak so curtly, he didn't know; but his speech did not at all please Miss Burt. Her color flew to her cheeks, though she said nothing, and then, as Mrs. Carleton rose from the table, the two ladies smiled and withdrew, leaving Rob alone with his host.
"It's all right, old boy, of course," said Carleton, "but did you have any reason for flouting poor little Dorothy like that?"
"No, I didn't," said Fessenden honestly and apologetically. "I spoke without thinking, and I'm sorry for it."
"All right—it's nothing. Now, Rob, old fellow, you can't deceive me. I saw a curious expression in your eyes as you looked at Miss Burt tonight, and—well, there is no need of words between us, so I'll only tell you you're all wrong there. You look for hidden meanings and veiled allusions in everything that girl says, and there aren't any. She's as frank and open-natured as she can be, and—forgive me—but I want you to let her alone." Fessenden was astounded. First, at Carleton's insight in discovering his thoughts, and second, at Carleton's mistaken judgment of Miss Burt's nature.
But he only said, "All right, Schuyler; what you say, goes. Would you rather not talk at all about the Van Norman affair?" Fessenden spoke thus casually, for he felt sure it would make it easier for Carleton than if he betrayed a deeper interest.
"Oh, I don't care. You know, of course, how deeply it affects me and my whole life. I know your sympathy and good-fellowship. There's not much more to say, is there?"
"Why, yes, Carleton; there is. As your friend, and also in the interests of justice, I am more than anxious to discover the villain who did the horrid deed, and though the inquest people are doing all they can, I want to add my efforts to theirs, in hope of helping them,—and you."
"Don't bother about me, Rob. I don't care if they never discover the culprit. Miss Van Norman is gone; it can't restore her to life if they do learn who killed her."
Fessenden looked mystified.
"That's strange talk, Schuyler,—but of course you're fearfully upset, and I suppose just at first it isn't surprising that you feel that way. But surely,—as man to man, now,—you want to find and punish the wretch that put an end to that beautiful young life."
"Yes,—I suppose so;" Carleton spoke hesitatingly, and drew his hand across his brow in the same dazed way he did when in the witness box.
"You're done up, old man, and I'm not going to bother you to-night. But I'm on the hunt, if you aren't, and I'm going ahead on a few little trails, hoping they'll lead to something of more importance. By the way, what were you doing in those few minutes last night between your entering the house and entering the library?"
Carleton stared at his guest.
"I don't know what you mean," he said.
"Yes, you do. You went in at eleven-fifteen, and you called for help at eleven-thirty."
"No,—it didn't take as long as that." Carleton's eyes had a far-away look, and Rob grasped his arm and shook him, as he said:
"Drop it, man! Drop that half-dazed way of speaking! Tell me, clearly, what did you do in that short interval?"
"I refuse to state," said Carleton quietly, but with a direct glance now that made Fessenden cease his insistence.
"Very well," he said; "it's of no consequence. Now tell me what you were doing last evening before you went over to the house?"
At this Carleton showed a disposition to be both haughty and ironical.
"Am I being questioned," he said, "and by you? Well, before I went to Miss Van Norman's I was walking in the rose-garden with Miss Burt. You saw me from your window."
"I did," said Rob gravely. "Were you with Miss Burt until the time of your going over to the Van Norman house?"
"No," said Carleton, with sarcastic intonation. "I said good-night to Miss Burt about three-quarters of an hour before I started to go over to Miss Van Norman's. Do you want to know what I did during that interval?"
"Yes."
"I was in my own room—my den. I did what many a man does on the eve of his wedding. I burned up a few notes,—perhaps a photograph or two,—and one withered rose-bud,—a 'keepsake.' Does this interest you?"
"Not especially, but, Schuyler, do drop that resentful air. I'm not quizzing you, and if you don't want to talk about the subject at all, we won't."
"Very well,—I don't."
"Very well, then."
The two men rose, and as Carleton held out his hand Rob grasped it and shook it heartily, then they went to the drawing-room and rejoined the ladies.
The Van Norman affair was not mentioned again that evening.
All