breathed Janet, clasping her hands; "don't breathe his name aloud!"
"I will!" I said, thoroughly angered now; "it is Graham Leroy, and you do love him, in spite of your pretended dislike of him!"
I paused suddenly, for a new thought had struck me. If Leroy were the murderer, and if Janet had admitted him to the house, and willingly or unwillingly been cognizant of his deed, then she would act exactly the way she had acted! She would try to shield him, try to avert suspicion from him, but of course she could not have him for her lawyer, and though she still loved him, she could not but scorn him.
The suddenness of these thoughts so overwhelmed me that for a moment I did not look at her. When I did, I was amazed at the change in her face. From a white pallor it had turned to an angry red, and my heart fell as I realized that she was angry at me for discovering her secret.
"Don't look like that," I pleaded; "only tell me the truth, and I will help you,—I will help you both. At any rate, I know that you were guiltless, even if you have a guilty knowledge of Leroy's deed."
"You needn't assume me guiltless," Janet said, and her low voice destitute of inflection, sounded as if she were forcing herself to recite, parrot-like, a lesson already learned. "I had motive, and Mr. Leroy had none."
"He may have had a dozen motives, for all I know," I said, rather harshly, for I was beginning to realize that if she cared enough for Leroy to proclaim herself guilty, my hopes were small indeed. "He may have wanted that money himself, and come back to get it!" This was a mean speech on my part, and utterly unfounded, but I was so angry at Janet for shielding Leroy's name, that I cared little what I said.
"Oh, Mr. Leroy never wanted money; he's a very rich man."
"Who did want the money then? Did you?" I was fast forgetting my manners, and my determination to win Janet's confidence by kindliness, but I had not expected to have Leroy thus flung in my face.
"Yes, I wanted money," said Janet, "you learned that from Charlotte's evidence."
"You are the strangest girl!" I said, staring at her, "you won't tell me the simple things I ask, and then you fire a statement like that at me! What do you mean? That you really wanted a large sum of money?"
"Yes; ten thousand dollars." The girl whispered this, and it seemed to my bewildered fancy as if she said it without even her own volition. It seemed forced from her by some subconscious process, and I was both amazed and frightened. But I tried not to show my feelings, for if I would learn the truth of this surprising revelation, I must move carefully.
"Did you want that much?" I said, in a casual way, as if it were a mere nominal sum. "What did you want it for?"
"As if I should tell you that!" and this astounding piece of humanity tossed her head, and smiled almost roguishly at me.
"Never mind what you wanted it for," I said, "but you did want it, didn't you? And you asked your uncle for it, and he refused you."
"He said that if,—if I would,—would—oh, what am I saying!" She broke off with a little gasp, as if she had almost betrayed a secret. But I knew.
"He said he would give it to you, and more too, if you would marry Mr. Leroy, didn't he?"
"Yes," Janet replied, and this time she spoke in a simple, natural voice and looked at me frankly.
"But, as you wanted the money to give to Mr. Leroy, and didn't want to marry him, your uncle's proposition didn't please you?"
Janet looked at me in a bewildered way. "Yes," she stammered, "yes,—that was it."
But I was learning my girl at last. For some reason she was telling a string of falsehoods! My faith in her made me believe that she was doing this for some definite and, to her, justifiable purpose. And yet, though my suggestion about Leroy seemed to me to be in line with her plans, and though she had said yes to it,—yet I knew it was not the truth. My rapidly increasing love for her gave me an insight into her nature, and though I might not be able to persuade her to tell me the truth, yet I could discern when she spoke truly and when falsely.
"I give it up," I said to her, suddenly adopting a lighter tone; "I can do nothing with you tonight in our relations of client and lawyer. Let us drop the whole dreadful subject for the rest of this evening, and let us pretend that we are just good friends, with no troublesome questions between us.
"Yes," agreed Janet, with a smile of delight, "let us do that; but anyway, I don't see why the troublesome questions that come between us as lawyer and client, should interfere with our friendship."
"Nor do I, bless you!" I exclaimed, and with a lightened heart I put aside my burden of doubt and fear for the present. And soon Laura came back, and we all chatted pleasantly, without reference to anything gruesome or dreadful.
Laura had not heard our foregoing conversation, and had not, as I feared I had, additional reasons to wonder at Janet Pembroke.
But, we were both charmed with the girl's vivacity and entertaining powers. She did or said nothing which savored too much of gayety to harmonize with her black gown, and yet her little whimsical speeches and her gentle wistful smiles won our hearts anew, and made both Laura and myself feel bound to her without regard to the cloud that hung above her head.
Chapter XX.
The Initialed Handkerchief
The funeral of Robert Pembroke was to be held Saturday afternoon. The man had so few friends that elaborate services were not arranged for. Indeed it was to take place from the mortuary chapel, and would doubtless be attended by a very small assembly.
Of course Laura and I would go, out of respect for our friends, although we had never known Mr. Pembroke himself.
I did not see Janet before I went downtown Saturday morning, as Laura was taking great care of the girl, and never allowed her to appear early in the morning.
When I reached my office, I found a letter which was signed James Decker.
It was a bit illiterate, but it revealed to me the fact that its writer had attended the National Theatre on the night of October sixteenth and as he had occupied a seat H 3, he was behind G 3, he wanted very much to know in what way it was to his advantage to announce the fact to me.
I telephoned Mr. Decker at the address he gave, and he agreed to come to see me within the next hour.
He came very soon, and entirely fulfilled the mental picture I had already drawn of him. Flashy clothing, red necktie and hat on the back of his head were his distinguishing characteristics, with voice and manner to correspond.
"What's up, pard?" was his unduly familiar greeting, but though I did not respond in his vernacular, I had no wish to criticise it.
I explained to him that I wanted to know anything he could tell me about the occupants of seats one and three G on the night in question.
"Sure, I can tell ye all about 'em," he declared; "they was pals of mine, Billy Rivers and Bob Pierson. They was eight of us went, and we had aisle seats of four rows, right in front of each other. What about them two chaps? they're all right, Guv'nor, I'll go bail for that!"
"I've no doubt of it, Mr. Decker," I responded, heartily; "and as this is just a little private matter between you and me, I'm going to ask you for their addresses, but I am going to assure you that this will get them into no trouble, unless they deserve it; and that if you so desire, your name need not be mentioned in the matter."
"Great Mackerel! I don't care how much you mention my name, and like's not Bob and Bill won't care either. They're straight, mister, good pals and good men."
There was something about the candid gaze of Decker that made me feel confidence in his words. I had a conviction then and there, that whoever murdered Robert