with you, Rob," he said, "but perhaps there's one more thing I ought to confess."
"Nonsense, man, I'm not your father confessor. If you've any facts, hand them over, but don't feel that you must justify yourself to me."
"But I do want to tell you this, for it will help you to understand my sensitiveness in the whole matter. As you know, Rob, I do love Dorothy Burt, and it is only since Madeleine's death that I have allowed myself to realize how much I love her. I shall never ask her to marry me, for the stigma of this dreadful affair will always remain attached to my name, and suspicion would more than ever turn to me, if I showed my regard for Dorothy. As I told you, I never spoke a word of love to her while Madeleine was alive. But she knew,—she couldn't help knowing. Brave little girl that she is, she never evinced that knowledge, and it was only when I surprised a sudden look in her eyes that I suspected she too cared for me. And yet, though we never admitted it to each other, Madeleine suspected the truth, and even taxed me with it. Of course I denied it; of course I vowed to Madeleine that she, and she only, was the woman I loved; because I thought it the right and honorable thing to do. If she hadn't cared so much for me herself, I might have asked her to release me; but I never did, and never even thought of doing so—until— that last evening. Then—well, you know how she had favored Willard in preference to me in the afternoon, and, though I well knew it was only to tease me, yet it did tease me, and I came home really angry at her. It was an ill-advised occasion for her to favor her cousin."
"I agree with you; but from the little I know of Miss Van Norman's nature, I judge she was easily piqued and quick to retaliate."
"Yes, she was; we were both too quick to take offense, but, of course, the real reason for that was the lack of true faith between us. Well, then I came home, angered, as I said, and Dorothy was so—so different from Madeleine, so altogether sweet and dear, so free from petty bickering or sarcasm, that for the first time I felt as if I ought not to marry the woman I did not love. I brooded over this thought all through the dinner hour and the early evening. Then you and mother left us, and I asked Dorothy to go for a little stroll in the garden. She refused at first—I think the child was a little fearful of what I might say—but I said nothing of the tumult in my heart. I realized, though, that she knew I loved her, and that—she cared for me. I had thought she did, but never before had I felt so sure of it,—and the knowledge completely unmanned me. I bade her good night abruptly, and rather coldly, and then I went into the library and fought it out with myself. And I concluded that my duty was to Madeleine. I confess to a frantic desire to go to her and ask her, even at that last minute, to free me from my troth, and then I thought what a scandal it would create, and I knew that even if Dorothy and I both suffered, it was Madeleine's right to leave matters as they were. Having decided, I proceeded to carry out my earlier intention of going over to the Van Norman house with the reliquary. It was so late then that I had no thought of seeing Madeleine, but—and this, Rob, is my confession—on the way there, I still had a lingering thought that if I should see Madeleine I would tell her the truth, and leave it to her generosity to set me free. And it was this guilty knowledge—this shameful weakness on my part—that added to my dismay and horror at finding her—as she was, in the library. I read that awful paper,—I thought of course, then, she had taken her own life, and I feared it was because she knew of my falseness and treachery. This made me feel as if I were really her murderer, quite as much as if I had struck the actual blow."
"Don't take it like that, Schuyler; that's morbid imagination. You acted loyally to Miss Van Norman to the last, and though the whole situation was most unfortunate, you were not really to blame. No man can rule his own heart, and, any way, it is not for me to comment on that side of the matter. But since you have spoken thus frankly of Miss Burt, I must ask you how, with your slight acquaintance, you are so sure she is worthy of your regard."
"Our acquaintance isn't so slight, Rob. She has been some time with mother,—more than six months,—and we have been good friends from the first. And I know her, perhaps by Love's intuition,—but I know her very soul,—and she is the truest, sweetest nature God ever made."
"But—forgive me—she has impressed me as being not quite so frank and ingenuous as she appears."
"That's only because you don't know her, and you judge by your own uncertain and mistaken impressions."
"But—when she gave her evidence at the inquest—she seemed to hesitate, and to waver as to what she should say. It did not have the ring of truth, though her manner was charming and even naive."
"You misjudge her, Rob. I say this because I know it. And I can't blame you, for, knowing of my engagement to Madeleine, you are quite right to disapprove of my interest in another woman."
"It isn't disapproval exactly."
"Well, it isn't suspicion, is it? You don't think that Dorothy had any hand in the tragedy, do you?" Carleton spoke savagely, with an abrupt change from his former manner, and as he heard his friend's words, Rob knew that he himself had no more suspicion of Dorthy Burt than he had of Carleton. She had testified in a constrained, uncertain manner, but that was not enough to rouse suspicion of her in any way.
"Of course not!" Fessenden declared heartily. "Don't be absurd. But have I your permission to put a few questions to Miss Burt, not in your presence?"
"Of course you have. I trust you to be kind and gentle with her, for she is a sensitive little thing; but I know whatever you may say to her, or she to you, will only make you see more clearly what a dear girl she is."
Fessenden was far from sure of this, but, having gained Carleton's permission to interview Miss Burt, he said no more about her just then.
For a long time the two men discussed the situation. But the more they talked the less they seemed able to form any plausible theory of the crime. At last Fessenden said, "There is one thing certain: if we are to believe Harris's statement about the locks and bolts, no one could have entered from the outside."
"No," said Carleton; "and so we're forced to turn our attention to some one inside the house. But each one in turn seems so utterly impossible. We cannot even suggest Mrs. Markham or Miss Morton—"
"I don't altogether like that Miss Morton. She acted queerly from the beginning."
"Not exactly queerly; she is not a woman of good breeding or good taste, but she only arrived that afternoon, and it's too absurd to picture her stabbing her hostess that night."
"I don't care how absurd it is; she profited by Miss Van Norman's death, and she was certainly avid to come into her inheritance at once."
"Yes, I know," said Schuyler almost impatiently. "But I saw Miss Morton when she first came downstairs, and though she was shocked, she really did nobly in controlling herself, and even in directing others what to do. You see, I was there, and I saw them all, and I'm sure that Miss Morton had no more to do with that dreadful deed than I had."
"Then what about her burning that will as soon as Miss Van Norman was dead?"
"I don't believe it was a will; and, in fact, I'm not sure she burned anything."
"Oh, yes, she did; I heard that French maid's story, when she first told it, and it was impossible to believe she was making it up. Besides, Miss French saw Miss Morton rummaging in the desk."
"She is erratic, I think, and perhaps, not overrefined but I'm sure she never could have been the one to do that thing. Why, that woman is frightened at everything. She wouldn't dare commit a crime. She is fearfully timid."
"Dismissing Miss Morton, then, let us take the others, one by one. I think we may pass over Miss French and Miss Gardner. We have no reason to think of Mr. Hunt in this connection, and this brings us down to the servants."
"Not quite to the servants," said Carleton, with a peculiar look in his eyes that caught Rob's attention.
"Not quite to the servants? What do you mean?"
Carleton said nothing, but with a troubled gaze he looked intently at Fessenden.
"Cicely!" exclaimed Rob. "You think that?"
"I think nothing," said Carleton slowly, "and