murderer,” he had said.
Consequently, I was not surprised when, upon visiting his house, early the next morning, I beheld him seated before a table on which lay a lady’s writing-desk and a pile of paper, till told the desk was Eleanore’s. Then I did show astonishment. “What,” said I, “are you not satisfied yet of her innocence?”
“O yes; but one must be thorough. No conclusion is valuable which is not preceded by a full and complete investigation. Why,” he cried, casting his eyes complacently towards the fire-tongs, “I have even been rummaging through Mr. Clavering’s effects, though the confession bears the proof upon its face that it could not have been written by him. It is not enough to look for evidence where you expect to find it. You must sometimes search for it where you don’t. Now,” said he, drawing the desk before him, “I don’t anticipate finding anything here of a criminating character; but it is among the possibilities that I may; and that is enough for a detective.”
“Did you see Miss Leavenworth this morning?” I asked, as he proceeded to fulfil his intention by emptying the contents of the desk upon the table.
“Yes; I was unable to procure what I desired without it. And she behaved very handsomely, gave me the desk with her own hands, and never raised an objection. To be sure, she had little idea what I was looking for; thought, perhaps, I wanted to make sure it did not contain the letter about which so much has been said. But it would have made but little difference if she had known the truth. This desk contains nothing we want.”
“Was she well; and had she heard of Hannah’s sudden death?” I asked, in my irrepressible anxiety.
“Yes, and feels it, as you might expect her to. But let us see what we have here,” said he, pushing aside the desk, and drawing towards him the stack of paper I have already referred to. “I found this pile, just as you see it, in a drawer of the library table at Miss Mary Leavenworth’s house in Fifth Avenue. If I am not mistaken, it will supply us with the clue we want.”
“But——”
“But this paper is square, while that of the confession is of the size and shape of commercial note? I know; but you remember the sheet used in the confession was trimmed down. Let us compare the quality.”
Taking the confession from his pocket and the sheet from the pile before him, he carefully compared them, then held them out for my inspection. A glance showed them to be alike in color.
“Hold them up to the light,” said he.
I did so; the appearance presented by both was precisely alike.
“Now let us compare the ruling.” And, laying them both down on the table, he placed the edges of the two sheets together. The lines on the one accommodated themselves to the lines on the other; and that question was decided.
His triumph was assured. “I was convinced of it,” said he. “From the moment I pulled open that drawer and saw this mass of paper, I knew the end was come.”
“But,” I objected, in my old spirit of combativeness, “isn’t there any room for doubt? This paper is of the commonest kind. Every family on the block might easily have specimens of it in their library.”
“That isn’t so,” he said. “It is letter size, and that has gone out. Mr. Leavenworth used it for his manuscript, or I doubt if it would have been found in his library. But, if you are still incredulous, let us see what can be done,” and jumping up, he carried the confession to the window, looked at it this way and that, and, finally discovering what he wanted, came back and, laying it before me, pointed out one of the lines of ruling which was markedly heavier than the rest, and another which was so faint as to be almost undistinguishable. “Defects like these often run through a number of consecutive sheets,” said he. “If we could find the identical half-quire from which this was taken, I might show you proof that would dispel every doubt,” and taking up the one that lay on top, he rapidly counted the sheets. There were but eight. “It might have been taken from this one,” said he; but, upon looking closely at the ruling, he found it to be uniformly distinct. “Humph! that won’t do!” came from his lips.
The remainder of the paper, some dozen or so half-quires, looked undisturbed. Mr. Gryce tapped his fingers on the table and a frown crossed his face. “Such a pretty thing, if it could have been done!” he longingly exclaimed. Suddenly he took up the next half-quire. “Count the sheets,” said he, thrusting it towards me, and himself lifting another.
I did as I was bid. “Twelve.”
He counted his and laid it down. “Go on with the rest,” he cried.
I counted the sheets in the next; twelve. He counted those in the one following, and paused. “Eleven!”
“Count again,” I suggested.
He counted again, and quietly put them aside. “I made a mistake,” said he.
But he was not to be discouraged. Taking another half-quire, he went through with the same operation;—in vain. With a sigh of impatience he flung it down on the table and looked up. “Halloo!” he cried, “what is the matter?”
“There are but eleven sheets in this package,” I said, placing it in his hand.
The excitement he immediately evinced was contagious. Oppressed as I was, I could not resist his eagerness. “Oh, beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Oh, beautiful! See! the light on the inside, the heavy one on the outside, and both in positions precisely corresponding to those on this sheet of Hannah’s. What do you think now? Is any further proof necessary?”
“The veriest doubter must succumb before this,” returned I.
With something like a considerate regard for my emotion, he turned away. “I am obliged to congratulate myself, notwithstanding the gravity of the discovery that has been made,” said he. “It is so neat, so very neat, and so conclusive. I declare I am myself astonished at the perfection of the thing. But what a woman that is!” he suddenly cried, in a tone of the greatest admiration. “What an intellect she has! what shrewdness! what skill! I declare it is almost a pity to entrap a woman who has done as well as this—taken a sheet from the very bottom of the pile, trimmed it into another shape, and then, remembering the girl couldn’t write, put what she had to say into coarse, awkward printing, Hannah-like. Splendid! or would have been, if any other man than myself had had this thing in charge.” And, all animated and glowing with his enthusiasm, he eyed the chandelier above him as if it were the embodiment of his own sagacity.
Sunk in despair, I let him go on.
“Could she have done any better?” he now asked. “Watched, circumscribed as she was, could she have done any better? I hardly think so; the fact of Hannah’s having learned to write after she left here was fatal. No, she could not have provided against that contingency.”
“Mr. Gryce,” I here interposed, unable to endure this any longer; “did you have an interview with Miss Mary Leavenworth this morning?”
“No,” said he; “it was not in the line of my present purpose to do so. I doubt, indeed, if she knew I was in her house. A servant maid who has a grievance is a very valuable assistant to a detective. With Molly at my side, I didn’t need to pay my respects to the mistress.”
“Mr. Gryce,” I asked, after another moment of silent self-congratulation on his part, and of desperate self-control on mine, “what do you propose to do now? You have followed your clue to the end and are satisfied. Such knowledge as this is the precursor of action.”
“Humph! we will see,” he returned, going to his private desk and bringing out the box of papers which we had no opportunity of looking at while in R——. “First let us examine these documents, and see if they do not contain some hint which may be of service to us.” And taking out the dozen or so loose sheets which had been torn from Eleanore’s Diary, he began turning them over.
While he was doing this, I took occasion to examine the contents of the