Knowing him to be a stranger in the household, he had not expected information from him.
"Your name?" he said quietly.
"I am Robert Fessenden, of New York City. I am a lawyer by profession, and I came to Mapleton yesterday for the purpose of acting as best man at Mr. Carleton's wedding. I came here this morning, not knowing of what had occurred in the night, and after conversation with some members of the household I felt impelled to investigate some points which seemed to me mysterious. I trust I have shown no intrusive curiosity, but I confess to a natural detective instinct, and I noticed some peculiarities about that paper you hold in your hand to which I should like to call your attention."
Fessenden's words caused a decided stir among his hearers, including the coroner and the two doctors.
Mr. Benson was truly anxious to learn what the young man had to say, but at the same time his professional jealousy was aroused by the implication that there was anything to be learned from the paper itself, outside of his own information concerning it.
"I was told," he said quickly, "that this paper is positively written in Miss Van Norman's own hand."
Robert Fessenden, while not exactly a handsome man, was of a type that impressed every one pleasantly. He was large and blond, and had an air that was unmistakably cultured and exceedingly well-bred. Conventionality sat well upon him, and his courteous self-assurance had in it no trace of egotism or self-importance. In a word, he was what the plain-spoken people of Mapleton called citified, and though they sometimes resented this combination of personal traits, in their hearts they admired and envied it.
This was why Coroner Benson felt a slight irritation at the young man's savoir faire, and at the same time a sense of satisfaction that there was promise of some worth-while help.
"I was told so, too," said Fessenden, in response to the coroner's remark, "and as I have never seen any of Miss Van Norman's writing, I have, of course, no reason to doubt this. But this is the point I want to inquire about: is it assumed that Miss Van Norman wrote the words on this paper while sitting here at the table last evening, immediately or shortly before her death?"
Mr. Benson thought a moment, then he said: "Without any evidence to the contrary, and indeed without having given this question any previous thought, I think I may say that it has been tacitly assumed that this is a dying confession of Miss Van Norman's."
He looked inquiringly at his audience, and Doctor Hills responded.
"Yes," he said; "we have taken for granted that Miss Van Norman wrote the message while sitting here last evening, after the rest of the household had retired. This we infer from the fact of Mr. Carleton's finding the paper on the table when he discovered the tragedy."
"You thought the same, Mr. Carleton?"
"Of course; I could not do otherwise than to believe Miss Van Norman had written the message and had then carried out her resolve."
"I think, Mr. Fessenden," resumed the coroner, "we may assume this to be the case."
"Then," said Fessenden, "I will undertake to show that it is improbable that this paper was written as has been supposed. The message is, as you see, written in pencil. The pencil here on the table, and which is part of a set of desk-fittings, is a very hard pencil, labeled H. A few marks made by it upon a bit of paper will convince you at once that it is not the pencil which was used to write that message. The letters, as you see, are formed of heavy black marks which were made with a very soft pencil, such as is designated by 2B or BB. If you please, I will pause for a moment while you satisfy yourself upon this point."
Greatly interested, Mr. Benson took the pencil from the pen-rack and wrote some words upon a pad of paper. Doctor Leonard and Doctor Hills leaned over the table to note results, but no one else stirred.
"You are quite right," said Mr. Benson; "this message was not written with this pencil. But what does that prove?"
"It proves nothing," said Fessenden calmly, "but it is pretty strong evidence that the message was not written at this table last night. For had there been any other pencil on the table, it would doubtless have remained. Assuming, then that Miss Van Norman wrote this message elsewhere, and with another pencil, it loses the special importance commonly attributed to the words of one about to die."
"It does," said Mr. Benson, impressed by the fact, but at a loss to know whither the argument was leading.
"Believing, then," went on the lawyer, "that this paper had not been written in this room last evening, I began to conjecture where it had been written. For one would scarcely expect a message of that nature to be written in one place and carried to another. I was so firmly convinced that something could be learned on this point, that just before we were summoned to this room, I asked permission of Mrs. Markham to examine the appointments of Miss Van Norman's writing-desk in her own room, and I found in her desk no soft pencils whatever. There were several pencils, of gold and of silver and of ordinary wood, but the lead in each was as hard as this one on the library table. Urged on by what seemed to me important developments, I persuaded Mrs. Markham to let me examine all of the writing-desks in the house. I found but one soft pencil, and that was in the desk of Miss Dupuy, Miss Van Norman's secretary. It is quite conceivable that Miss Van Norman should write at her secretary's desk, but I found myself suddenly confronted by another disclosure. And that is that the handwritings of Miss Van Norman and Miss Dupuy are so similar as to be almost identical. In view of the importance of this written message, should it not be more carefully proved that this writing is really Miss Van Norman's own?"
"It should, indeed," declared Coroner Benson, who was by this time quite ready to agree to any suggestion Mr. Fessenden might make. "Will somebody please ask Miss Dupuy to come here?"
"I will," said Miss Morton, and, rising, she quickly rustled from the room.
Of course, every one present immediately remembered that Miss Dupuy had left the room in a fit of hysterical emotion, and wondered in what frame of mind she would return.
Nearly every one, too, resented Miss Morton's officiousness. Whatever errand was to be done, she volunteered to do it, quite as if she were a prominent member of the household, instead of a lately arrived guest.
"This similarity of penmanship is a very important point," observed Mr. Benson, "a very important point indeed. I am surprised that it has not been remarked sooner."
"I've often noticed that they wrote alike," said Kitty French impulsively, "but I never thought about it before in this matter. You see"—she involuntarily addressed herself to the coroner, who listened with interest—"you see, Madeleine instructed Cicely to write as nearly as possible like she did, because Cicely was her social secretary and answered all her notes, and wrote letters for her, and sometimes Cicely signed Madeleine's name to the notes, and the people who received them thought Maddy wrote them herself. She didn't mean to deceive, only sometimes people don't like to have their notes answered by a secretary, and so it saved a lot of trouble. I confess," Kitty concluded, "that I can't always tell the difference in their writing myself, though I usually can."
Miss Morton returned, bringing Cicely with her. Still officious of manner, Miss Morton rearranged some chairs, and then seated herself in the front row with Cicely beside her. She showed what seemed almost an air of proprietorship in the girl, patting her shoulder, and whispering to her, as if by way of encouragement.
But Miss Dupuy's demeanor had greatly changed. No longer weeping, she had assumed an almost defiant attitude, and her thin lips were tightly closed in a way that did not look promising to those who desired information.
With a conspicuous absence of tact or diplomacy, Mr. Benson asked her abruptly, "Did you write this paper?"
"I did," said Cicely, and as soon as the words were uttered her lips closed again with a snap.
Her reply fell like a bombshell upon the breathless group of listeners. Tom Willard was the first to speak.
"What!" he exclaimed. "Maddy didn't write that? You wrote it?"
"Yes," asserted Cicely, looking Tom squarely in the eyes.
"When