"Miss Van Norman intimated as much just before dinner, when we were here alone. She feared Mr. Carleton was so angry he wouldn't come to dinner at all."
"And he didn't."
"No, he didn't."
"But, Miss Dupuy, it would scarcely be possible to think that if he did return later to ask his release—it would not be possible to think that on Miss Van Norman's refusal to release him he was so incensed against her that—"
"Oh, no, no!" cried Cicely. "Of course he didn't kill her! Of course he didn't! She killed herself! I don't care what any one says—I know she killed herself!"
"If so," said Fessenden, "we must prove it by keeping on with our investigations. And now, Miss Dupuy, will you tell me what was your errand when you returned to the library late last night, when the two doctors were alone there in charge of the room?"
"I didn't!" declared Cicely, her cheeks flaming and her blue eyes fairly glaring at her interrogator.
"Please stick to the truth, Miss Dupuy," said Fessenden coldly. "If you don't, we can't credit any of your statements. You opened the door very softly, and were about to enter, when you spied the doctors and withdrew."
"I went to get that paper," said Cicely, somewhat sulkily.
"Why did you want that?"
"Because it was mine. I had a right to it."
"Then why didn't you go on in and get it? The doctors' presence need have made no difference."
"I don't know why I didn't! I wish you'd stop asking questions!"
"I will, in a moment. You are sure you wrote that paper yourself?"
"Of course I am!" The answer was snapped out pertly.
"And you wrote it meaning yourself? You didn't write it with the intent that it should be taken for Miss Van Norman's message?"
Cicely eyes dropped involuntarily. Then she raised them, and stared straight at Fessenden. "What do you mean?" she asked haughtily.
"Just what I say. Was that written paper an expression of your own heart's secret?"
It must have been because of Fessenden's magnetism, or compelling sympathy, but for some reason Cicely took no offense at this, and answered simply, "Yes."
"Strange," mused Rob, "how that man won so many women's hearts."
"No, it isn't strange," said Cicely, also in slow, thoughtful tones. And then, suddenly realizing the admission she had made, and seeing how she had revealed her own secret she flew into a rage.
"What do you mean?" she cried. "I didn't refer to Mr. Carleton."
"Yes, you did," said Fessenden, so quietly that again Cicely was silent, and Kitty sat surprised almost to breathlessness.
"There is to be only truth between us," went on Rob. "You did mean Mr. Carleton, by the letter 'S'; but have no fear, your secret shall be respected. Now we will have only the truth— remember that. So please tell me frankly at what time you saw Mr. Carleton come into the house last night?"
"Just a few moments before half-past eleven." Cicely said this glibly, as if reciting a carefully-conned lesson.
"Wait a moment—you forget that Mr. Hunt fixed the time at quarter after eleven, and that he saw you looking over the baluster at the same time."
With an agonized cry of dismay, Miss Dupuy fainted into utter unconsciousness.
Perplexed and baffled in his inquiries, Fessenden saw that for the moment Miss Dupuy's physical condition was of paramount importance, and at Kitty's request he rang for Marie. Even before she came the others had placed Cicely gently on a couch, and when the maid arrived Fessenden left the room, knowing that the girl was properly cared for.
Going downstairs again, he was about to make his adieux to Mrs. Markham and leave the house, when Kitty French, coming down soon after him, asked him to stay a few minutes longer.
The sight of her pretty face drove more serious thoughts from his mind, and he turned, more than willing to follow where she led. "Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you," he whispered. But Kitty had weighty information to impart, and was in no mood for trifling. They found a quiet corner, and then Kitty told him that Cicely had regained consciousness almost immediately, but that just before she did so, she cried out sharply, "They must not think Schuyler did it! They must not!"
"And so," said Kitty, astutely, "you see, it's as I told you. Mr. Carleton did kill Maddy, and Cicely knows it, but she doesn't want other people to find it out, because she's in love with him herself!"
Rob Fessenden gave his companion an admiring glance.
"That's good reasoning and sound logic," he said; "and I'd subscribe to it if it were anybody but old Schuyler. But I can't and won't believe that man guilty without further evidence than that of a fainting, hysterical woman."
"Everybody seems to be in love with Mr. Carleton," said Kitty, demurely.
"You're not, are you?" said Rob, so quickly that Kitty blushed.
"No, I'm not," she declared. "He's a stunning looking man, and that superior, impassive way of his catches some women, but I don't care for it. I prefer a more enthusiastic temperament."
"Like mine," said Rob casually.
"Have you a temperament?" said Kitty saucily. "It isn't at all noticeable."
"It will be, after you know me better. But Miss French, since you've raised this question of Miss Dupuy's evidence, let me tell you what it means to me. Or, rather, what it seems to point to, for it's all too vague for us to draw any real conclusions. But, as a first impression, my suspicion turns toward Miss Dupuy herself rather than Carleton."
"Cicely! You don't mean she killed Maddy! Oh, how can you?"
"Now, don't fly into hysterics yourself. Wait a minute. I haven't accused her at all. But look at it. Miss Van Norman was certainly killed by Carleton, or by some one already in the house. It has been proved that nobody outside could get in. Now if the criminal is some one in the house, we must consider each one in turn. And if by chance we consider Miss Dupuy first, we must admit a motive."
"What motive?"
"Why, that of a jealous woman. Miss Van Norman was just about to marry the man Miss Dupuy is in love with. Perhaps—do have patience, I'm merely supposing—perhaps she has vainly urged Miss Van Norman to give him up, and, finding she wouldn't do so, at the last minute she prevented the marriage herself,—putting that paper on the table to make it appear a suicide. This would explain her stealthy attempt to regain possession of the paper later."
"Why should she want it?"
"So that it couldn't be proved not to be in Miss Van Norman's writing."
"It's ingenious on your part," said Kitty slowly, "but it can't be true. Cicely may be in love with Schuyler, but she wouldn't kill Maddy because of that."
"Who can tell what a hysterical, jealous woman will do?" said Rob, with the air of an oracle. "And moreover, to my mind, that explains her half-conscious exclamation of which you just told me. When she said, 'They must not think Schuyler did it,' it meant that she knew he didn't do it, but she didn't want suspicion to rest on him. That's why she insists it was a suicide."
So in earnest was Fessenden that Kitty felt almost convinced there was something in his theory.
"But it can't be," she said, at last, with an air of finality. "It wouldn't be possible for Cicely to do such a thing! I know her too well!"
"Then, Miss French, if that, to you, is a logical argument, you must admit mine. It wouldn't be possible for Carleton to do such a thing! I know him too well!"
Kitty had to smile at the imitation of the strong inflections she had used, and, too, she had to admit that one opinion was as permissible as the other.
"You see," went on Rob quietly,