"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 felt a certain oppression in the atmosphere, and all tried to dispel it, but it was not easy. Uninteresting topics of conversation were tossed from one to another, but each felt relieved when at last Mrs. Carleton rose to go upstairs and the evening was at an end.
Fessenden went to his room, his brain a whirlwind of conflicting thoughts.
He sat down by an open window and endeavored to classify them into some sort of order.
First, he was annoyed at Carleton's inexplicable attitude. Granting he was in love with Miss Burt, he had no reason to act so unconcerned about the Van Norman tragedy. And yet Schuyler's was a peculiar nature, and doubtless all this strange behavior of his was merely the effort to hide his real sorrow.
But again, if he were in love with Miss Burt, his sorrow for the loss of Madeleine was for the loss of her fortune and not herself. This Fessenden refused to believe, but the more he refused to believe it, the more it came back to him. Then there was his new notion, that came to him at dinner, about Miss Burt. Carleton said she was the ingenuous, timid girl she looked, but Rob couldn't believe it. Executive ability showed in that determined little chin. Veiled cunning lurked in the shadows of those innocent eyes. And the girl had a motive. Surely she wanted her rival out of her way. Then she had said good-night to Schuyler nearly an hour before he went over to Madeleine's. Could she have—but, nonsense! Even if she had been so inclined, how could she have entered the house? Ah, that settled it! She couldn't. And Fessenden was honestly glad of it. Honestly glad that he had proved to himself that Miss Burt—lovely, alluring little Dorothy Burt—was not the hardened criminal for whom he was looking!
Then it came back to Schuyler. No! Never Schuyler! But if not he, then who? And what was he doing in that incriminating interval, and why wouldn't he tell?
And then, idly gazing from his window Rob saw again two figures walking in the rose-garden.
And they were the same two that he had seen there the evening before.
Schuyler Carleton and Dorothy Burt were strolling,—no, now they were standing, standing close to each other in earnest conversation.