The effect of the whole article was to raise grave doubts as to the candor of Mr. Van Burnam’s assertions, and I am told that in some of the less scrupulous papers these doubts were not only expressed, but actual surmises ventured upon as to the identity between the person whom I had seen enter the house with the young girl. As for my own name, it was blazoned forth in anything but a gratifying manner. I was spoken of in one paper—a kind friend told me this—as the prying Miss Amelia. As if my prying had not given the police their only clue to the identification of the criminal.
The New York World was the only paper that treated me with any consideration. That young man with the small head and beady eyes was not awed by me for nothing. He mentioned me as the clever Miss Butterworth whose testimony is likely to be of so much value in this very interesting case.
It was the World I handed the Misses Van Burnam when they came down-stairs to breakfast. It did justice to me and not too much injustice to him. They read it together, their two heads plunged deeply into the paper so that I could not watch their faces. But I could see the sheet shake, and I noticed that their social veneer was not as yet laid on so thickly that they could hide their real terror and heart-ache when they finally confronted me again.
“Did you read—have you seen this horrible account?” quavered Caroline, as she met my eye.
“Yes, and I now understand why you felt such anxiety yesterday. Did you know your sister-in-law, and do you think she could have been beguiled into your father’s house in that way?”
It was Isabella who answered.
“We never have seen her and know little of her, but there is no telling what such an uncultivated person as she might do. But that our good brother Howard ever went in there with her is a lie, isn’t it, Caroline?—a base and malicious lie?”
“Of course it is, of course, of course. You don’t think the man you saw was Howard, do you, dear Miss Butterworth?”
Dear? O dear!
“I am not acquainted with your brother,” I returned. “I have never seen him but a few times in my life. You know he has not been a very frequent visitor at your father’s house lately.”
They looked at me wistfully, so wistfully.
“Say it was not Howard,” whispered Caroline, stealing up a little nearer to my side.
“And we will never forget it,” murmured Isabella, in what I am obliged to say was not her society manner.
“I hope to be able to say it,” was my short rejoinder, made difficult by the prejudices I had formed. “When I see your brother, I may be able to decide at a glance that the person I saw entering your house was not he.”
“Yes, oh, yes. Do you hear that, Isabella? Miss Butterworth will save Howard yet. O you dear old soul. I could almost love you!”
This was not agreeable to me. I a dear old soul! A term to be applied to a butter-woman not to a Butterworth. I drew back and their sentimentalities came to an end. I hope their brother Howard is not the guilty man the papers make him out to be, but if he is, the Misses Van Burnam’s fine phrase, We could almost love you, will not deter me from being honest in the matter.
Mr. Gryce called early, and I was glad to be able to tell him that the gentleman who visited him the night before did not recall the impression made upon me by the other. He received the communication quietly, and from his manner I judged that it was more or less expected. But who can be a correct judge of a detective’s manner, especially one so foxy and imperturbable as this one? I longed to ask who his visitor was, but I did not dare, or rather—to be candid in little things that you may believe me in great—I was confident he would not tell me, so I would not compromise my dignity by a useless question.
He went after a five minutes’ stay, and I was about to turn my attention to household affairs, when Franklin came in.
His sisters jumped like puppets to meet him.
“O,” they cried, for once thinking and speaking alike, “have you found her?”
His silence was so eloquent that he did not need to shake his head.
“But you will before the day is out?” protested Caroline.
“It is too early yet,” added Isabella.
“I never thought I would be glad to see that woman under any circumstances,” continued the former, “but I believe now that if I saw her coming up the street on Howard’s arm, I should be happy enough to rush out and—and——”
“Give her a hug,” finished the more impetuous Isabella.
It was not what Caroline meant to say, but she accepted the emendation, with just the slightest air of deprecation. They were both evidently much attached to Howard, and ready in his trouble to forget and forgive everything. I began to like them again.
“Have you read the horrid papers?” and “How is papa this morning?” and “What shall we do to save Howard?” now flew in rapid questions from their lips; and feeling that it was but natural they should have their little say, I sat down in my most uncomfortable chair and waited for these first ebullitions to exhaust themselves.
Instantly Mr. Van Burnam took them by the arm, and led them away to a distant sofa.
“Are you happy here?” he asked, in what he meant for a very confidential tone. But I can hear as readily as a deaf person anything which is not meant for my ears.
“O she’s kind enough,” whispered Caroline, “but so stingy. Do take us where we can get something to eat.”
“She puts all her money into china! Such plates!—and so little on them!”
At these expressions, uttered with all the emphasis a whisper will allow, I just hugged myself in my quiet corner. The dear, giddy things! But they should see, they should see.
“I fear”—it was Mr. Van Burnam who now spoke—“I shall have to take my sisters from under your kind care to-day. Their father needs them, and has, I believe, already engaged rooms for them at the Plaza.”
“I am sorry,” I replied, “but surely they will not leave till they have had another meal with me. Postpone your departure, young ladies, till after luncheon, and you will greatly oblige me. We may never meet so agreeably again.”
They fidgeted (which I had expected), and cast secret looks of almost comic appeal at their brother, but he pretended not to see them, being disposed for some reason to grant my request. Taking advantage of the momentary hesitation that ensued, I made them all three my most conciliatory bow, and said as I retreated behind the portière:
“I shall give my orders for luncheon now. Meanwhile, I hope the young ladies will feel perfectly free in my house. All that I have is at their command.” And was gone before they could protest.
When I next saw them, they were upstairs in my front room. They were seated together in the window and looked miserable enough to have a little diversion. Going to my closet, I brought out a band-box. It contained my best bonnet.
“Young ladies, what do you think of this?” I inquired, taking the bonnet out and carefully placing it on my head.
I myself consider it a very becoming article of headgear, but their eyebrows went up in a scarcely complimentary fashion.
“You don’t like it?” I remarked. “Well, I think a great deal of young girls’ taste; I shall send it back to Madame More’s to-morrow.”
“I don’t think much of Madame More,” observed Isabella, “and after Paris——”
“Do you like La Mole better?” I inquired, bobbing my head to and fro before the mirror, the better to conceal my interest in the venture I was making.
“I don’t like any of them but D’Aubigny,”