 CHAPTER XIII. HOWARD VAN BURNAM The gentlemen who stepped from the carriage and entered Mr. Van Burnam's house at twelve o'clock that night produced so little impression upon me that I went to bed satisfied that no result would follow these efforts at identification. And so I told Mr. Grice when he arrived next morning, but he seemed by no means disconcerted and merely requested that I would submit to one more trial, to which I gave my consent and he departed. I could have asked him a string of questions, but his manner did not invite them, and for some reason I was too weary to show an interest in this tragedy superior to that felt by every right-thinking person connected with it. At ten o'clock I was in my old seat in the courtroom. The same crowd with different faces confronted me, amid which the twelve stolid countenances of the jury looked like old friends. Howard Van Burnam was the witness called, and as he came forward and stood in full view of us all, the interest of the occasion reached its climax. His countenance were a reckless look that did not serve to pre-possess him with the people at whose mercy he stood. But he did not seem to care, and waited for the coroner's questions with an air of ease which was in direct contrast to the drawn and troubled faces of his father and brother just visible in the background. Her doll surveyed him a few minutes before speaking, then he quietly asked if he had seen the dead body of the woman who had been found lying under a fallen piece of furniture in his father's house. He replied that he had. Before she was removed from the house or after it. After? Did you recognize it? Was it the body of any one you know? I do not think so. Has your wife, who was missing yesterday, been heard from yet, Mr. Van Burnam? Not to my knowledge, sir. Had she not, that is, your wife, a complexion similar to that of the dead woman just alluded to? She had a fair skin and brown hair, if that is what you mean, but these attributes are common to too many women for me to give them any weight in an attempted identification of this importance. Had they no other similar points of a less general character, was not your wife of a slight and graceful build, such as is attributed to the subject of this inquiry? My wife was slight and she was graceful, common attributes also. And your wife had a scar? Yes. On the left ankle? Yes. Which the deceased also has? That I do not know, they say so, but I had no interest in looking. Why, may I ask, did you not think at a remarkable coincidence? The young man frowned, it was the first token of feeling he had given. I was not on the lookout for coincidences, was his cold reply. I had no reason to think this unhappy victim of an unknown man's brutality, my wife, and so did not allow myself to be moved by even such a fact as this. You had no reason, repeated the coroner, to think this woman your wife. Had you any reason to think she was not? Yes. Will you give us that reason? I had more than one. First my wife would never wear the clothes I saw on the girl whose dead body was shown to me. Secondly, she would never go into any house alone with a man at the hour testified to by one of your witnesses. Not with any man? I did not mean to include her husband in my remark, of course. But as I did not take her to Gramercy Park, the fact that the deceased woman entered an empty house accompanied by a man, is proof enough to me that she was not Louise Van Burnham. When did you part with your wife? On Monday morning at the depot in Hadam. Did you know where she was going? I knew where she said she was going. And where was that, may I ask, to New York to interview my father? But your father was not in New York. She was daily expected here. The steamer on which he had sailed from Southampton was due on Tuesday. Had she an interest in seeing your father? Was there any special reason why she should leave you for doing so? She thought so. She thought he would become reconciled to her entrance into our family, if he should see her suddenly and without prejudice persons standing by. And did you fear to mar the effect of this meeting if you accompanied her? No, for I doubted if the meeting would ever take place. I had no sympathy with her schemes and did not wish to give her the sanction of my presence. Was that the reason you let her go to New York alone? Yes. Had you no other? No. Why did you follow her then in less than five hours? Because I was uneasy because I also wanted to see my father, because I am a man accustomed to carrying out every impulse, and impulse led me that day in the direction of my somewhat headstrong wife. Did you know where your wife intended to spend the night? I did not. She has many friends, or at least I have in the city, and I concluded she would go to one of them as she did. When did you arrive in the city before ten o'clock? Yes, a few minutes before. Did you try to find your wife? No, I went directly to the club. Did you try to find her the next morning? No, I had heard that the steamer had not yet been sighted off Fire Island, so considered the effort unnecessary. Why? What connection is there between this fact and an endeavor on your part to find your wife? A very close one. She had come to New York to throw herself at my father's feet. Now she could only do this at the steamer, or in... Why do you not proceed, Mr. Van Burnham? I will. I do not know why I stopped, or in his own house. In his own house. In the house in Gramercy Park, do you mean? Yes, he has no other. The house in which this dead girl was found. Yes, impatiently. Did you think she might throw herself at his feet there? She said she might, and as she is romantic, foolishly romantic, I thought her fully capable of doing so. And so you did not seek her in the morning? No, sir. How about in the afternoon? This was a close question. We saw that he was affected by it, though he tried to carry it off bravely. I did not see her in the afternoon. I was in a restless frame of mind, and did not remain in the city. Ah, indeed, and where did you go? Unless necessary I prefer not to say. It is necessary. I went to Coney Island. Alone? Yes. Did you see anybody there you know? No. And when did you return? At midnight? When did you reach your rooms? Later. How much later? Two or three hours? And where were you during those hours? I was walking the streets. The ease, the quietness with which he made these acknowledgments were remarkable. The jury to a man honoured him with a prolonged stare, and the awestruck crowds scarcely breathed during their utterance. At the last sentence a murmur broke out, at which he raised his head and with an air of surprise surveyed the people before him. Though he must have known what their astonishment meant, he neither quailed nor blanched. And while not in reality a handsome man, he certainly looked handsome at this moment. I did not know what to think, so for a bore to think anything, meanwhile the examination went on. Mr. Van Burnham, I have been told that the lock at I see there dangling from your watch chain contains a lock of your wife's hair, is it so? I have a lock of her hair in this, yes. There is a lock clipped from the head of the unknown woman whose identity we seek. Have you any objection to comparing the two? It is not an agreeable task you have set me, was the imperturbable response. But I have no objection to doing what you ask. And calmly lifting the chain, he took off the locket, opened it, and held it out courteously towards the coroner. May I ask you to make the first comparison? he said. The coroner, taking the locket, laid the two locks of brown hair together, and after a moment's contemplation of them both, surveyed the young man seriously and remarked, They are of the same shade. Shall I pass them down to the jury? Howard bowed. You would have thought he was in a drawing room and in the act of bestowing a favor. But his brother Franklin showed a very different countenance, and as for their father, one could not even see his face. He so persistently held up his hand before it. The jury, wide awake now, passed the locket along with many sly nods and a few whispered words. When it came back to the coroner, he took it and handed it to Mr. Van Burnham, saying, I wish you would observe the similarity for yourself, I can hardly detect any difference between them. Thank you, I am willing to take your word for it, replied the young man, with most astonishing aplomb. And coroner and jury, for a moment looked baffled, and even Mr. Grice, of whose face I caught a passing glimpse at this instant, stared at the head of his cane, as if it were of thicker wood than he expected, and had more naughty points on it than even his accustomed hand liked to encounter. Another effort was not out of place, however, and the coroner, summoning up some of the pompous severity he found useful at times, asked the witness if his attention had been drawn to the dead woman's hands. He acknowledged that it had. The physician who made the autopsy urged me to look at them, and I did. They were certainly very like my wife's. Only like? I cannot say that they were my wife's, do you wish me to perjure myself? A man should know his wife's hands as well as he knows her face. Very likely. And you are ready to swear these were not the hands of your wife? I am ready to swear I did not so consider them. And that is all? That is all. The coroner frowned and cast a glance at the jury. They needed prodding now and then, and this is the way he prodded them. As soon as they gave signs of recognizing the hint he gave them, he turned back and renewed his examination in these words. Mr. Van Burnham, did your brother at your request hand you the keys of your father's house on the morning of the day on which this tragedy occurred? He did. Have you those keys now? I have not. What have you done with them? Did you return them to your brother? No. I see where your inquiries are tending, and I do not suppose you will believe my simple word. But I lost the keys on the day I received them. That is why— Well, you may continue, Mr. Van Burnham. I have no more to say. My sentence was not worth completing. The murmur which rose about him seemed to show dissatisfaction, but he remained imperturbable, or rather like a man who did not hear. I began to feel the most painful interest in the inquiry, and dreaded, while I anxiously anticipated, his further examination. You lost the keys. May I ask when and where? That I do not know. They were missing when I searched for them, missing from my pocket, I mean. Ah! And when did you search for them? The next day, after I had heard of what had taken place in my father's house. The hesitations were those of a man weighing his reply. They told on the jury, as all such hesitations do, and made the coroner lose an atom of the respect he had hitherto shown this easygoing witness. And you do not know what became of them? No. Or into whose hands they fell? No, but probably into the hands of the wretch. To the astonishment of everybody he was on the verge of vehemence, but becoming sensible of it he controlled himself with a suddenness that was almost shocking. Find the murderer of this poor girl, said he, with a quiet air that was more thrilling than any display of passion, and ask him where he got the keys with which he opened the door of my father's house at midnight. Was this a challenge, or just the natural outburst of an innocent man? Neither the jury nor the coroner seemed to know. The former looking startled, and the latter nonplussed. But Mr. Grice, who had moved now into view, smoothed the head of his cane with quite a loving touch, and did not seem at this moment to feel its inequalities objectionable. We will certainly try to follow your advice, the coroner assured him. Meanwhile we must ask how many rings your wife is in the habit of wearing. Five. Two on the left hand, and three on the right. Do you know these rings? I do. Better than you know her hands? As well, sir. Were they on her hands when you parted from her in Hadham? They were. Did she always wear them? Almost always. Indeed I do not ever remember seeing her take off more than one of them. Which one? The ruby with the diamond setting. Had the dead girl any rings on when you saw her? No, sir. Did you look to see? I think I did in the first shock of the discovery. And you saw none? No, sir. And from this you concluded she was not your wife. From this and other things. Yet you must have seen that the woman was in the habit of wearing rings, even if they were not on her hands at that moment. Why, sir? Why should I know about her habits? Is not that a ring I see now on your little finger? It is my seal ring which I always wear. Will you pull it off? Pull it off? If you please it is a simple test I am requiring of you, sir. The witness looked astonished but pulled off the ring at once. Here it is, said he. Thank you, but I do not want it. I merely want you to look at your finger. The witness complied, evidently more non-plus than disturbed by this command. Do you see any difference between that finger and the one next it? Yes, there is a mark about my little finger showing where the ring has pressed. Very good. There were such marks on the fingers of the dead girl, who, as you say, had no rings on. I saw them and perhaps you did yourself. I did not. I did not look closely enough. They were on the little finger of the right hand, on the marriage finger of the left, and on the forefinger of the same. On which fingers did your wife wear rings? On those same fingers, sir, but I will not accept this fact as proving her identity with the deceased. Most women do wear rings and on those very fingers. The coroner was netled, but he was not discouraged. He exchanged looks with Mr. Grice, but nothing further passed between them, and we were left to conjecture what this interchange of glances meant. The witness, who did not seem to be affected either by the character of this examination, or by the conjectures to which it gave rise, preserved his sang froid and eyed the coroner as he might any other questioner, with suitable respect, but with no fear, and but little impatience. And yet he must have known the horrible suspicion darkening the minds of many people present, and suspected, even if against his will, that this examination, significant as it was, but the forerunner of another and yet more serious one. You are very determined, remarked the coroner in beginning again, not to accept the very substantial proofs presented you of the identity between the object of this inquiry and your missing wife. But we are not yet ready to give up this struggle, and so I must ask, if you heard the description given by Miss Ferguson, of the manner in which your wife was dressed on leaving Adam. I have. Was it a correct account? Did she wear a black and white plaid silk and a hat trimmed with various colored ribbons and flowers? She did. Do you remember the hat? Were you with her when she bought it? Or did you ever have your attention drawn to it in any particular way? I remember the hat. Is this it, Mr. Van Burnham? I was watching Howard, and the start he gave was so pronounced, and the emotion he displayed was in such violent contrast to the self-possession he had maintained up to this point, that I was held spellbound by the shock I received, and forbore to look at the object which the coroner had suddenly held up for inspection. But when I did turn my head towards it, I recognized at once the multicolored hat, which Mr. Grice had brought in from the third room of Mr. Van Burnham's house, on the evening I was there, and realized almost in the same breath that greatest this mystery has hitherto seemed, it was likely to prove yet greater before its proper elucidation was arrived at. Was that found in my father's house? Where? Where was that hat found, stammered the witness, so far forgetting himself as to point towards the object in question? It was found by Mr. Grice in a closet off your father's dining-room, a short time after the dead girl was carried out. I don't believe it, fascifrated the young man, pailing with something more than anger and shaking from head to foot. Shall I put Mr. Grice on his oath again? asked the coroner mildly. The young man stared, evidently these words failed to reach his understanding. Is it your wife's hat persisted the coroner with very little mercy? Do you recognize it for the one in which she left Hadham? Would to God I did not burst in vehement distress from the witness, who at the next moment broke down altogether, and looked about for the support of his brother's arm. One came forward and the two brothers stood for a moment, in the face of the whole surging mass of curiosity-mongers before them, arm in arm but with very different expressions on their two proud faces. Howard was the first to speak. If that was found in the parlors of my father's house, he cried, then the woman who was killed there was my wife, and he started away with a wild air towards the door. Where are you going? asked the coroner quietly, while an officer stepped softly before him, and his brother compassionately drew him back by the arm. I am going to take her from that horrible place. She is my wife. Father, you would not wish her to remain in that spot for another moment, would you, while we have a house we call our own? Mr. Van Burnham, the senior, who had shrunk as far from sight as possible through these painful demonstrations, rose up at these words from his agonized son, and making him an encouraging gesture walked hastily out of the room, seeing which the young man became calmer, and though he did not cease to shudder tried to restrain his first grief, which to those who looked closely at him was evidently very sincere. I would not believe it was she, he cried, in total disregard of the presence he was in. I would not believe it, but now a certain pitiful gesture finished the sentence, and neither coroner nor jury seemed to know just how to proceed, the conduct of the young man being so markedly different from what they had expected. After a short pause, painful enough to all concerned, the coroner, perceiving that very little could be done with the witness under the circumstances, adjourned the sitting till afternoon. End of Chapter 13 Chapter 14 A Serious Admission I went at once to a restaurant. I ate because it was time to eat, and because any occupation was welcome that would pass away the hours of waiting. I was troubled, and I did not know what to make of myself. I was no friend to the Van Burnham's, I did not like them, and certainly had never approved of any of them but Mr. Franklin, and yet I found myself altogether disturbed over the morning's developments, Howard's emotion having appealed to me in spite of my prejudices. I could not but think ill of him, his conduct not being such as I could honestly commend, but I found myself more ready to listen to the involuntary pleadings of my own heart in his behalf than I had been prior to his testimony, and its somewhat startling termination. But they were not through with him yet, and after the longest three hours I had ever passed, we were again convened before the coroner. I saw Howard as soon as anybody did. He came in arm in arm as before with his faithful brother, and sat down in a retired coroner, behind the coroner, but he was soon called forward. His face when the light fell on it was startling to most of us. It was as much changed as if years instead of hours had elapsed since last we saw it. No longer reckless in its expression, nor easy, nor politely patient. It showed in its every liniment that he had not only passed through a hurricane of passion, but that the bitterness, which had been its worst feature, had not passed with the storm but had settled into the core of his nature, disturbing its equilibrium forever. My emotions were not allayed by the sight, but I kept all expression of them out of view. I must be sure of his integrity before giving reign to my sympathies. The jury moved and sat up quite alert when they saw him. I think that if these as special twelve men could have a murder case to investigate every day, they would grow quite wide awake in time. Mr. Van Burnham made no demonstration. Evidently there was not likely to be a repetition of the morning's display of passion. He had been iron in his impassibility at that time, but he was steel now, and steel which had been through the fiercest of fires. The opening question of the coroner showed by what experience these fires had been kindled. Mr. Van Burnham, I have been told that you have visited the morgue in the interim, which has elapsed since I last questioned you. Is that true? It is. Did you, in the opportunity thus afforded, examine the remains of the woman whose death we are investigating, attentively enough to enable you to say now whether they are those of your missing wife? I have. The body is that of Louise Van Burnham. I crave your pardon and that of the jury for my former obscenity in refusing to recognize it. I thought myself fully justified in the stand I took. I see now that I was not. The coroner made no answer, there was no sympathy between him and this young man. Yet he did not fail in a decent show of respect. Perhaps because he did feel some sympathy for the witness's unhappy father and brother. You then acknowledged the victim to have been your wife? I do. It is a point gained and I compliment the jury upon it. We can now proceed to settle, if possible, the identity of the person whom accompanied Mrs. Van Burnham into your father's house. Wait! cried Mr. Van Burnham with a strange air. I acknowledge I was that person. It was coolly almost fiercely said, but it was an admission that well-nigh created a hubbub. Even the coroner seemed moved and cast a glance at Mr. Grice which showed his surprise to be greater than his discretion. You acknowledge he began, but the witness did not let him finish. I acknowledge that I was the person who accompanied her into that empty house, but I do not acknowledge that I killed her. She was alive and well when I left her, difficult as it is for me to prove it. It was the realization of this difficulty which made me perjure myself this morning. So, murmured the coroner, with another glance at Mr. Grice, you acknowledge that you perjured yourself. Will the room be quiet? The lull came slowly, the contrast between the appearance of this elegant young man and the significant admissions he had just made. Admissions which to three-quarters of the persons there meant more, much more than he acknowledged, was certainly such as to provoke interest of the deepest kind. I felt like giving reign to my own feelings and was not surprised at the patience shown by the coroner. But order was restored at last and the inquiry proceeded. We are then to consider the testimony given by you this morning as null and void. Yes, so far as it contradicts what I have just stated. Ah, then you will no doubt be willing to give us your evidence again? Certainly if you will be so kind as to question me. Very well, where did your wife and yourself first meet after your arrival in New York? In the street near my office. She was coming to see me but I prevailed upon her to go uptown. What time was this? After ten and before noon I cannot give the exact hour. And where did you go? To a hotel on Broadway you have already heard of our visit there. You are then the Mr. James Pope, whose wife registered in the books of the Hotel D. on the seventeenth of this month? I have said so. And may I ask for what purpose you used this disguise and allowed your wife to sign a wrong name? To satisfy a freak, she considered it the best way of covering up a scheme she had informed, which was to awaken the interest of my father under the name and appearance of a stranger, and not to inform him who she was till he had given some evidence of partiality for her. Ah, but for such an end was it necessary for her to assume a strange name before she saw your father, and for you both to conduct yourselves in the mysterious way you did all that day and evening? I do not know. She thought so, and I humored her. I was tired of working against her and was willing she should have her own way for a time. And for this reason you let her fit herself out with clothes, down to her very undergarments? Yes, strange as it may seem, I was just such a fool. I had entered into her scheme and the means she took to change her personality only amused me. She wished to present herself to my father as a girl obliged to work for her living, and was too shrewd to excite suspicion in the minds of any of the family, by any undue luxury in her apparel. At least that was the excuse she gave me for the precautions she took. Though I think the delight she experienced in anything romantic and unusual had as much to do with it as anything else. She enjoyed the game she was playing and wished to make as much of it as possible. Were her own garments much richer than those she ordered from Altman's? Undoubtedly. Mrs. Van Burnham wore nothing made by American seamstresses. Fine clothes were her weakness. I see, I see. But why such an attempt on your part to keep yourself in the background? Why let your wife write assumed names in the hotel register for instance instead of doing it yourself? It was easier for her, I know no other reason. She did not mind putting down the name of Pope, I did. It was an ungracious reflection upon his wife, and he seemed to feel it so, for he almost immediately added, a man will sometimes lend himself to a scheme of which the details are obnoxious. It was so in this case. But she was too interested in her plans to be affected by so small a matter as this. This explained more than one mysterious action on the part of this pair while they were at the Hotel D. The coroner evidently considered it in this light, for he dwelt but little longer on this phase of the case, passing on to a fact concerning which curiosity has hitherto been roused without receiving any satisfaction. In leaving the hotel, said he, you and your wife were seeing carrying certain packages which were missing from your arms when you alighted at Mr. Van Burnham's house. What was in those packages and where did you dispose of them before you entered the second carriage? Howard made no demur in answering. My wife's clothes were in them, said he, and we dropped them somewhere on 27th Street, near Third Avenue, just as we saw an old woman coming along the sidewalk. We knew that she would stop and pick them up, and she did, for we slid into a dark shadow made by a projecting stoop and watched her. Is that too simple a method for disposing of certain encumbering bundles to be believed, sir? That is for the jury to decide, answered the coroner stiffly, but why were you so anxious to dispose of these articles? Were they not worth some money, and would it not have been simpler and much more natural, to leave them at the hotel till you chose to send for them? That is, if you were simply engaged in playing, as you say, a game upon your father and not upon the whole community. Yes, Mr. Van Burnham acknowledged, that would have been the natural thing, no doubt, but we were not following natural instincts at the time, but a woman's bizarre caprices. We did, as I said, and laughed long, I assure you, over its unqualified success. For the old woman not only grabbed the packages with avidity, but turned and fled away with them, just as if she had expected this opportunity, and had prepared to make the most of it. It was very laughable, certainly, observed the coroner in a hard voice. You must have found it very ridiculous. After giving the witness a look full of something deeper than sarcasm, he turned towards the jury as if to ask them what they thought of these very forced and suspicious explanations. But they evidently did not know what to think, and the coroner's looks flew back to the witness, who, of all the persons present, seemed the least impressed by the position in which he stood. Mr. Van Burnham said he, you showed a great deal of feeling this morning at being confronted with your wife's hat. Why was this? And why did you wait till you saw this evidence of her presence on the scene, of death, to acknowledge the facts you have been good enough to give us this afternoon? If I had a lawyer by my side, you would not ask me that question. Or if you did, I would not be allowed to answer it. But I have no lawyer here, and so I will say that I was greatly shocked by the catastrophe which has happened to my wife, and under the stress of my first overpowering emotions had the impulse to hide the fact that the victim, of so dreadful a mischance, was my wife. I thought that if no connection was found between myself and this dead woman, I would stand in no danger of the suspicion which must cling to the man who came into the house with her. But like most first impulses, it was a foolish one, and gave way under the strain of investigation. I however persisted in it as long as possible, partially because my disposition is an obstinate one, and partially because I hated to acknowledge myself a fool. But when I saw that hat, and recognized it as an indisputable proof of her presence in the van Burnham House, that night, my confidence in the attempt I was making broke down all at once. I could deny her shape, her hands, and even the scar which she might have had in common with other women, but I could not deny her hat. Too many persons had seen her wear it. But the coroner was not to be so readily imposed upon. I see, I see, he repeated with great dryness, and I hope the jury will be satisfied. And they probably will, unless they remember the anxiety which, according to your story, was displayed by your wife to have her whole outfit in keeping with her appearance as a working girl. If she was so particular as to think it necessary to dress herself in store-made undergarments, why make all these precautions void by carrying into the house a hat with the name of an expensive millner inside it? Women are inconsistent, sir. She liked the hat and hated to part with it. She thought she could hide it somewhere in the great house. At least that was what she said to me when she tucked it under her cape. The coroner, who evidently did not believe one word of this, stared at the witness as if curiosity was fast taking the place of indignation. And I did not wonder. Howard Van Burnham, as thus presented to our notice by his own testimony, was an anomaly, whether we were to believe what he was saying at the present time, or what he had said during the morning session, but I wished I had had the questioning of him. His next answer, however, opened up one dark place into which I had been peering for some time without any enlightenment. It was in reply to the following query. All this, said the coroner, is very interesting, but what explanation have you to give for taking your wife into your father's empty house at an hour so late and then leaving her to spend the best part of the dark night alone? None, said he, that will strike you as sensible and judicious, but we were not sensible that night, neither were we judicious, or I would not be standing here trying to explain what is not explainable by any of the ordinary rules of conduct. She was set upon being the first to greet my father on his entrance into his own home, and her first plan had been to do so in her own proper character as my wife. But afterwards the freak took her, as I have said, to personify the housekeeper whom my father had cabled us to have in waiting at his house. A cable-gram which had reached us too late for any practical use, and which we had therefore ignored. And fearing he might come early in the morning before she could be on hand to make the favorable impression she intended, she wished to be left in the house that night, and I humored her. I did not foresee the suffering that my departure might cause her, or the fears that were likely to spring from her lonely position in so large and empty a dwelling, or rather I should say she did not foresee them, for she begged me not to stay with her when I hinted at the darkness and dreariness of the place, saying that she was too jolly to feel, fear, or think of anything but the surprise my father and sisters would experience in discovering that their very agreeable young housekeeper was the woman they had so long despised. And why persisted the coroner edging forward in his interest, and so allowing me to catch a glimpse of Mr. Grice's face, as he too leaned forward in his anxiety to hear every word that fell from this remarkable witness? Why do you speak of her fear? What reason have you to think she suffered apprehension after your departure? Why, echoed the witness, as if astounded by the other's lack of perspicacity? Did she not kill herself in a moment of terror and discouragement? Using her as I did in a condition of health and good spirits, can you expect me to attribute her death to any other cause than a sudden attack of frenzy caused by terror? Ah, exclaimed the coroner in a suspicious tone, which no doubt voiced the feelings of most people present, then you think your wife committed suicide. Most certainly replied the witness, avoiding but two pairs of eyes in the whole crowd, those of his father and brother. With a hat pin, continued the coroner, letting his hitherto scarcely suppressed irony become fully visible in his voice and manner. Thrust into the back of her neck at a spot young ladies surely would have but little reason to know is particularly fatal? Suicide, when she was found crushed under a pile of bric-a-brac which was thrown down or fell upon her hours after she received the fatal thrust? I do not know how else she could have died, persisted the witness calmly, unless she opened the door to some burglar, and what burglar would kill a woman in that way when he could pound her with his fists? No, she was frenzied and stabbed herself in desperation, or the thing was done by accident, God knows how. And as for the testimony of the experts, well, we all know how easily the wisest of them can be mistaken, even in matters of as serious import as these. If all the experts in the world hear his voice rose and his nostrils dilated till his aspect was actually commanding and impressed us all like a sudden transformation. If all the experts in the world were to swear that those shelves were thrown upon her after she had laid there for four hours dead, I would not believe them. Appearances or no appearances, blood or no blood, I here declare that she pulled that cabinet over in her death-struggle, and upon the truth of this fact I am ready to rest my honor as a man and my integrity as her husband. An uproar immediately followed, amid which could be heard cries of, he lies, he's a fool, the attitude taken by the witness was so unexpected that the most callous person present could not fail to be affected by it. But curiosity is as potent a passion as surprise, and in a few minutes all was still again, and everybody intent to hear how the coroner would answer these asseverations. I have heard of a blind man denying the existence of light, said the gentleman, but never before of a sensible being like yourself, urging the most untenable theories in face of such evidence as has been brought before us during this inquiry. If your wife committed suicide, or if the entrance of the point of a hat-pin into her spine was effected by accident, how comes the head of the pin to have been found so many feet away from her and in such a place as the parlor register? It may have flown there when it broke, or, what is much more probable, been kicked there by some of the many people who passed in and out of the room between the time of her death and that of its discovery. But the register was found closed, urged the coroner, was it not, Mr. Grice? That person thus appealed to Rose for an instant. It was, said he, and deliberately sat down again. The face of the witness which had been singularly free from expression since his last vehement outbreak, clouded over for an instant, and his eye fell, as if he felt himself engaged in an unequal struggle, but he recovered his courage speedily and quietly observed. The register may have been closed by a passing foot. I have known of stranger coincidences than that. Mr. Van Burnham asked the coroner, as if weary of subterfuges and argument, have you considered the effect which this highly contradictory evidence of yours is likely to have on your reputation? I have. And are you ready to accept the consequences? If any special consequences follow I must accept them, sir. When did you lose the keys which you say you have not now in your possession? This morning you asserted that you did not know, but perhaps this afternoon you may like to modify that statement. I lost them after I left my wife shut up in my father's house. Soon, very soon, how soon, within an hour I should judge. How do you know it was so soon? I missed them at once. Where were you when you missed them? I don't know. Somewhere I was walking the streets, as I have said. I don't remember just where I was when I thrust my hands in my pocket and found the keys gone. You do not? No. But it was within an hour after leaving the house. Yes. Very good. The keys have been found. The witness started, started so violently that his teeth came together with a click, not enough to be heard over the whole room. Have they, he said with an effort at nonchalance, which, however, failed to deceive anyone who noticed his change of color. You can tell me, then, where I lost them. They were found, said the coroner, in their usual place above your brother's desk in Duane Street. Oh! murmured the witness, utterly taken aback or appearing so. I cannot account for their being found in the office. I was so sure I dropped them in the street. I did not think you could account for it, quietly observed the coroner, and without another word he dismissed the witness, who staggered to a seat as remote as possible from the one where he had previously been sitting between his father and brother. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of That Affair Next Door This is a LibriVox recording. While LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording to-day by Don Larson in Minnesota. That Affair Next Door by Anna K. Green. Chapter 15 A Reluctant Witness A pause of decided duration now followed, an exasperating pause which tried even me, such as I pride myself upon my patience. There seemed to be some hitch in regard to the next witness. The coroner sent Mr. Greiss into the neighboring room more than once, and finally, when the general uneasiness seemed on the point of expressing itself by a loud murmur, a gentleman stepped forth, whose appearance, instead of allaying the excitement, renewed it in quite an unprecedented and remarkable way. I did not know the person thus introduced. He was a handsome man, a very handsome man if the truth must be told, but it did not seem to be this fact which made half the people there crane their heads to catch a glimpse of him. Something else, something entirely disconnected with his appearance there as a witness, appeared to hold the people enthralled and waken a subdued enthusiasm, which showed itself not only in smiles, but in whispers and significant nudges, chiefly among the women, though I noticed that the jury men stared when somebody obliged them with the name of this new witness. At last it reached my ears, and though it awakened in me also a decided curiosity, I restrained all expression of it, being unwilling to add one jot to this ridiculous display of human weakness. Ralph Stone, as the intended husband of the rich Miss Althorp, was a figure of some importance in the city, and while I was very glad of this opportunity of seeing him, I did not propose to lose my head or forget. In the marked interest his person invoked, the very serious cause which had brought him before us, and yet I suppose no one in the room observed his figure more minutely. He was elegantly made and possessed, as I have said, a face of peculiar beauty, but these were not his only claims to admiration. He was a man of endowed intelligence and great distinction of manner. The intelligence did not surprise me, knowing as I did how he had raised himself to his present enviable position in society in the short space of five years. But the perfection of his manner astonished me, though how I could have expected anything less in a man honoured by Miss Althorp's regard, I cannot say. He had that clear pallor of complexion, which in a smooth shaven face is so impressive, and his voice when he spoke had that music in it which only comes from great cultivation and a deliberate intent to please. He was a friend of Howard's that I saw by the short look that passed between them when he first entered the room, but that it was not as a friend he stood there was apparent from the state of amazement with which the former recognized him, as well as from the regret to be seen underlying the polished manner of the witness himself. Though perfectly self-possessed and perfectly respectful, he showed by every means possible the pain he felt in adding one featherweight to the evidence against a man with whom he was on terms of more or less intimacy. But let me give his testimony. Having acknowledged that he knew the Van Burnham family well, and Howard in particular, he went on to state that on the night of the seventeenth he had been detained at his office by business of a more than usual pressing nature. And finding that he could expect no rest for that night, humoured himself by getting off the cars at twenty-first street instead of proceeding on to thirty-third street where his apartments were. The smile which these words caused, Miss Althorp lives on twenty-first street, woke no corresponding light on his face. Indeed, he frowned at it, as if he felt that the gravity of the situation admitted of nothing frivolous or humorsome. And this feeling was shared by Howard for he started when the witness mentioned twenty-first street, and cast him a haggard look of dismay which happily no one saw but myself, for everyone else was concerned with the witness, or should I say except Mr. Greiss. I had, of course, no intentions beyond a short stroll through this street previous to returning to my home, continued the witness gravely, and am sorry to be obliged to mention this freak of mine, but find it necessary in order to account for my presence there at so unusual an hour. You need make no apologies, returned the coroner, will you state on what line of cars you came from your office? I came up Third Avenue, ah, and walked towards Broadway, yes, so that you necessarily passed very near the Van Burnham mansion, yes, at what time was this, can you say? At four, or nearly four, it was half past three when I left my office. Was it light at that hour could you distinguish objects readily? I had no difficulty in seeing. And what did you see, anything amiss at the Van Burnham mansion? No, sir, nothing amiss. I merely saw Howard Van Burnham coming down the stoop as I went by the corner. You made no mistake, it was the gentleman you name and no other whom you saw, on this stoop at this hour. I am very sure that it was he, I am sorry, but the corner gave him no opportunity to finish. You and Mr. Van Burnham are friends, you say, and it was light enough for you to recognize each other, then you probably spoke. No, we did not. I was thinking, well, of other things, and here he allowed the ghost of a smile to flit suggestively across his firm-set lips, and Mr. Van Burnham seemed preoccupied also, for as far as I know he did not even look my way. And you did not stop? No, he did not look like a man to be disturbed, and this was at four on the morning of the eighteenth. What for? Are you certain of the hour and of the day? I am certain, I should not be standing here if I were not very sure of my memory. I am sorry, he began again, but he was stopped as preemptively as before by the corner. Feeling has no place in an inquiry like this, and the witness was dismissed. Mr. Stone, who had manifestly given his evidence under compulsion, looked relieved at its termination. As he passed back to the room from which he had come, many only noticed the extreme elegance of his form and the proud cast of his head, but I saw more than these. I saw the look of regret he cast at his friend Howard. A painful silence followed his withdrawal, then the coroner spoke to the jury. Gentlemen, I leave you to judge of the importance of this testimony. Mr. Stone is a well-known man of unquestionable integrity. But perhaps Mr. Van Burnham can explain how he came to visit his father's house at four o'clock in the morning on that memorable night, when according to his latest testimony he left his wife there at twelve. We will give him the opportunity. There is no use, began the young man, from the place where he sat, but gathering courage, then while speaking he came rapidly forward and facing the coroner and jury once more, said with a false kind of energy that imposed upon no one. I can explain this fact, but I doubt if you will accept my explanation. I was at my father's house at that hour, but not in it. My restlessness drove me back to my wife, but not finding the keys in my pocket. I came down the stoop again and went away. Ah, I see now why you pervericated this morning in regard to the time when you missed those keys. I know that my testimony is full of contradictions. You feared to have it known that you were on the stoop of your father's house for the second time that night. Naturally, in face of the suspicion I perceived everywhere about me, and this time you did not go in? No. Nor ring the bell. No. Why not if you left your wife within alive and well? I did not wish to disturb her. My purpose was not strong enough to surmount the least difficulty. I was easily deterred from going where I had little wish to be. So that you merely went up the stoop and down again at the time Mr. Stone saw you? Yes, and if he had passed a minute sooner he would have seen this. Seem me go up, I mean, as well as see me come down. I did not linger long in the doorway. But you did linger there a moment. Yes, long enough to hunt for the keys and get over my astonishment at not finding them. Did you notice Mr. Stone going by on 21st Street? No. Was it as light as Mr. Stone has said? Yes, it was light. And you did not notice him? No. Yet you must have followed very closely behind him. Not necessarily. I went by the way of 20th Street, sir. Why I do not know, for my rooms are uptown. I do not know why I did half the things I did that night. I can readily believe it, remarked the coroner. Mr. Van Burnham's indignation rose. You are trying, said he, to connect me with the fearful death of my wife in my father's lonely house. You cannot do it, for I am as innocent of that death as you are, or any other person in this assemblage. Nor did I pull those shelves down upon her as you would have this jury think, in my last thoughtless visit to my father's door. She died according to God's will by her own hand or by means of some strange and unaccountable accident known only to him. And so you will find, if justice has any place in these investigations, and a manly intelligence be allowed to take the place of prejudice in the breasts of the twelve men now sitting before me. And bowing to the coroner he waited for his dismissal, and receiving it walked back not to his lonely coroner, but to his former place between his father and brother, who received him with a wistful air and strange looks of mingled hope and disbelief. The jury will render their verdict on Monday morning, announced the coroner, and adjourned the inquiry. End of Chapter 15. End of Book 1. Book 2. The Windings of Elaborant. Chapter 16. Cogitations. My cook had prepared for me a most excellent dinner, thinking that I needed all the comfort possible after a day of such trying experiences. But I ate little of it, my thoughts were too busy, my mind too much exercised. What would be the verdict of the jury, and could this special jury be relied upon to give a just verdict? At seven I had left the table, and was shut up in my own room. I could not rest till I had fathomed my own mind in regard to the events of the day. The question, the great question, of course, now was how much of Howard's testimony was to be believed, and whether he was notwithstanding his assertions, to the contrary, the murderer of his wife. To most persons the answer seemed easy. From the expression of such people as I had jostled in leaving the courtroom, I judged that his sentence had already been passed in the minds of most there present. But these hasty judgements did not influence me. I hope I look deeper than the surface, and my mind would not subscribe to his guilt, notwithstanding the bad impression made upon me by his falsehoods and contradictions. Now why would not my mind subscribe to it? Had sentiment got the better of me, Amelia Butterworth, and was I no longer capable of looking things squarely in the face? Had the van Burnham's of all people in the world awakened my sympathies at the cost of my good sense? And was I disposed to see virtue in a man in whom every circumstance, as it came to light, revealed little but folly and weakness? The lies he had told, for there is no other word to describe his contradictions, would have been sufficient under most circumstances to condemn a man in my estimation. Why then did I secretly look for excuses to his conduct? Probing the matter to the bottom, I reasoned in this way. The latter half of his evidence was a complete contradiction of the first, purposely so. In the first he made himself out a cold-hearted egotist, with not enough interest in his wife to make an effort to determine whether she, and the murdered woman, were identical. In the latter he showed himself in the light of a man influenced to the point of folly, by a woman to whom he had been utterly unyielding a few hours before. Now knowing human nature to be full of contradictions, I could not satisfy myself that I should be justified in accepting either half of his testimony, as absolutely true. The man who is all firmness one minute, may be all weakness the next, and in face of the calm assertions made by this one, when driven to bay by the unexpected discoveries of the police. I dared not decide that his final assurances were altogether false, and that he was not the man I had seen enter the adjoining house with his wife. Why then not carry the conclusion farther and admit, as reason and probability suggested, that he was also her murderer, that he had killed her during his first visit, and drawn the shelves down upon her in the second? Would not this account for all the phenomena to be observed in connection with this otherwise unexplainable affair? Certainly, all but one. One that was perhaps known to nobody but myself, and that was the testimony given by the clock. It said that the shelves fell at five, whereas according to Mr. Stone's evidence, it was four or thereabouts when Mr. Van Burnham left his father's house. But the clock might not have been a reliable witness. It might have been set wrong, or it might not have been running at all at the time of the accident. No, it would not do for me to rely too much upon anything so doubtful, nor did I. Yet I could not rid myself of the conviction that Howard spoke the truth, when he declared in face of corner injury that they could not connect him with this crime, and whether this conclusion sprang from sentimentality or intuition, I was resolved to stick to it for the present night at least. The morrow might show its futility, but the morrow had not come. Meanwhile, with this theory accepted, what explanation could be given of the very peculiar facts surrounding this woman's death? Could the supposition of suicide advanced by Howard before the corner be entertained for a moment, or that equally improbable suggestion of accident? Going to my bureau drawer I drew out the old Grocer Bill, which has already figured in these pages, and re-read the notes I had scribbled on its back early in the history of this affair. They related, if you will remember, to this very question, and seemed even now to answer it in a more or less convincing way. Will you pardon me if I transcribe these notes again, as I cannot imagine my first deliberations on this subject, to have made a deep enough impression for you to recall them without help from me? The question raised in these notes was threefold, and the answers, as you will recollect, were transcribed before the cause of death had been determined by the discovery of the broken pin in the dead woman's brain. These are the queries. First, was her death due to accident? Second, was it affected by her own hand? Third, was it a murder? The replies given are in the form of reasons, as witness. My reason for not thinking it an accident. If it had been an accident, and she had pulled the cabinet over upon herself, she would have been found with her feet pointing towards the wall where the cabinet had stood. But her feet were towards the door and her head under the cabinet. Two, the precise arrangement of the clothing about her feet, which precluded any theory involving accident. My reason for not thinking it a suicide. She could not have been found in the position observed, without having lain down on the floor while living, and then pulled the shelves down upon her. A theory obviously too improbable to be considered. My reason for not thinking it murder. She would need to have been held down on the floor while the cabinet was being pulled over on her. A thing, which the quiet aspect of the hands and feet make appear impossible. Very good, but we know now that she was dead when the shelves fell over. So that my one excuse for not thinking it murder is rendered null. My reasons for thinking it a murder. But I will not repeat these. My reasons for not thinking it an accident or a suicide remained as good as when they were written. And if her death had not been due to either of these causes, then it must have been due to some murderous hand. Was that hand the hand of her husband? I have already given it, as my opinion, that it was not. Now, how to make that opinion good and reconcile me again to myself? For I am not accustomed to having my instincts at war with my judgment. Is there any reason for my thinking as I do? Yes, the manliness of the man. He only looked well when he was repelling the suspicion he saw in the surrounding faces. But that might have been assumed, just as his careless manner was assumed during the early part of the inquiry. I must have some stronger reason than this for my belief. The two hats? Well, he had explained how there came to be two hats on the scene of the crime. But his explanation had not been very satisfactory. I had seen no hat in her hand when she crossed the pavement to her father's house. But then she might have carried it under her cape without my seeing it. Perhaps. The discovery of two hats and of two pairs of gloves in Mr. Van Burnham's parlors was a fact worth further investigation, and mentally I made a note of it, though at the moment I saw no prospect of engaging in this matter further than my duties as a witness required. And now, what other clue was offered me? Save the one I have already mentioned as being given by the clock. None that I could seize upon and feeling the weakness of the cause I had so obstinately embraced. I rose from my seat at the tea-table, and began making such alterations in my toilet as would prepare me for the evening and my inevitable callers. Amelia, said I to myself, as I encountered my anything but satisfied reflection in the glass. Can it be that you ought, after all, to have been called Araminta? Is a momentary display of spirit on the part of a young man of doubtful principles enough to make you forget the dictates of good sense which have always governed you up to this time? The stern image which confronted me from the mirror made no reply, and smitten was sudden disgust. I left the glass and went below to greet some friends who had just ridden up in their carriage. They remained one hour, and they discussed one subject. Howard Van Burnem and his probable connection with the crime which had taken place next door. But though I talked some and listened more, as disproper for a woman in her own house, I said nothing and heard nothing which had not already been said and heard in numberless homes that night. Whatever thoughts I had which in any way differed from those generally expressed, I kept to myself. Whether guided by discretion or pride I cannot say, probably both, for I am not deficient in either quality. Arrangements had already been made for the burial of Mrs. Van Burnem that night, and as the funeral ceremony was to take place next door, many of my guests came just to sit in my windows and watch the coming and going of the few people invited to the ceremony. But I discouraged this. I have no patience with idle curiosity. Consequently by nine I was left alone to give the affair such real attention as it demanded. Something which, of course, I could not have done with a half dozen gossiping friends leaning over my shoulder. End of CHAPTER XVI The result of this attention can be best learned from the conversation I held with Mr. Gice the next morning. He came earlier than usual, but he found me up and stirring. Well, he cried, accosting me with a smile as I entered the parlor where he was seated, it is all right this time, is it not? No trouble in identifying the gentleman who entered your neighbor's house last night at a quarter to twelve. Resolved to probe this man's mind to the bottom, I put on my sternest air. I had not expected anyone to enter their soul late last night, said I. Mr. Van Burnham declared so positively at the inquest that he was the person we have been endeavouring to identify, that I did not suppose you would consider it necessary to bring him to the house for me to see. And so you were not in the window? I did not say that, I am always where I have promised to be, Mr. Gice. Well, then, he inquired sharply. I was purposely slow in answering him. I had all the longer time to search his face. But its calmness was impenetrable, and finally I declared. The man you brought with you last night, you were the person who accompanied him, were you not? Was not the man I saw alight there four nights ago. He may have expected it. It may have been the very assertion he desired from me, but his manner showed displeasure, and the quick, how, he uttered, was sharp and preemptory. I do not ask who it was I went on with a quiet wave of my hand, that immediately restored him to himself. For I know you will not tell me. But what I do hope to know is the name of the man who entered that same house at just ten minutes after nine. He was one of the funeral guests, and he arrived in a carriage that was immediately preceded by a coach, from which four persons alighted two ladies and two gentlemen. I do not know the gentleman, ma'am, was the detective's half-surprised and half-amused retort. I did not keep track of every guest that attended the funeral. Then you didn't do your work, as well as I did mine, was my rather dry reply. For I noted every one who went in, and that gentleman whoever he was, was more like the person I have been trying to identify than any one I have seen enter there during my four midnight vigils. Mr. Grice smiled, uttered a short, indeed, and looked more than ever like a sphinx. I began quietly to hate him under my calm exterior. Was Howard at his wife's funeral, I asked. He was, ma'am. And did he come in a carriage? He did, ma'am. Alone? He thought he was alone, yes, ma'am. Then may it not have been he? I can't say, ma'am. Mr. Grice was so obviously out of his element under this cross-examination, that I could not suppress a smile, even while I experienced a very lively indignation at his reticence. He may have seen me smile, and he may not, for his eyes, as I have intimated, were always busy with some object entirely removed from the person he addressed. But at all events he rose, leaving me no alternative, but to do the same. And so you didn't recognize the gentleman I brought to the neighboring house just before twelve o'clock, he quietly remarked, with a calm ignoring of my last question, which was a trifle exasperating. No. Then, ma'am, he declared, with a quick change of manner meant, I should judge, to put me in my proper place. I do not think we can depend upon the accuracy of your memory, and he made a motion, as if to leave. As I did not know whether his apparent disappointment was real or not, I let him move to the door without a reply. But once there I stopped him. Mr. Greiss said I, I don't know what you think about this matter, nor whether you even wish my opinion upon it, but I am going to express it for all that. I do not believe that Howard killed his wife with a hatpin. No, retorted the old gentleman, peering into his hat, with an ironical smile, which that inoffensive article of attire had certainly not merited. And why, Ms. Butterworth, why, you must have substantial reasons for any opinion you would form. I have an intuition, I responded, backed by certain reasons. The intuition won't impress you very deeply, but the reasons may not be without some weight, and I am going to confide them to you. Do, he entreated, in a jacos manner which struck me as inappropriate, but which I was willing to overlook on account of his age in very fatherly manner. Well, then, said I, this is one. If the crime was a premeditated one, if he hated his wife and felt it for his interest to have her out of the way, a man of Mr. Van Burnham's good sense would have chosen any other spot than his father's house to kill her in, knowing that her identity could not be hidden if once she was associated with the Van Burnham name. If, on the contrary, he took her there in good faith, and her death was the unexpected result of a quarrel between them, then the means employed would have been simpler. An angry man does not stop to perform a delicate surgical operation when moved to the point of murder, but uses his hands or his fists, just as Mr. Van Burnham himself suggested. Huh! grunted the detective, staring very hard indeed into his hat. You must not think me this young man's friend, I went on, with a well-meant desire to impress him with the impartiality of my attitude. I never have spoken to him nor he to me, but I am the friend of justice, and I must declare that there was a note of surprise in the emotion he showed at sight of his wife's hat, that was far too natural to be assumed. The detective failed to be impressed. I might have expected this knowing his sex, and the reliance such a man is apt to place upon his own powers. Acting, ma'am, acting was his laconic comment, a very uncommon character that of Mr. Howard Van Burnham. I do not think you do it full justice. Perhaps not, but see that you don't slight mine. I do not expect you to heed these suggestions any more than you did those I offered you in connection with Mrs. Boppert, the scrub woman, but my conscience is eased by my communication, and that is much to a solitary woman like myself, who is obliged to spend many a long hour alone with no other companion. Something has been accomplished then by this delay, he observed. Then, as if ashamed of this momentary display of irritation, he added in the genial tones more natural to him. I don't blame you for your good opinion of this interesting, but by no means reliable, young man, Miss Butterworth. A woman's kind heart stands in the way of her proper judgment of criminals. You will not find its instincts fail even if you do its judgment. His bow was as full of politeness as it was lacking in conviction. I hope you won't let your instincts lead you into any unnecessary detective work, he quietly suggested. That I cannot promise. If you arrest Howard Van Burnham for murder, I may be tempted to meddle with matters which don't concern me. An amused smile broke through his simulated seriousness. Pray accept my congratulations, then, in advance, ma'am. My health has been such that I have long anticipated giving up my profession. But if I am to have such assistance as you in my work, I shall be inclined to remain in it some time longer. When a man is busy as you stops to indulge in sarcasm, he is in more or less good spirits. Such a condition, I am told, only prevails with detectives, when they have come to a positive conclusion concerning the case they are engaged upon. I see you already understand the members of your future profession. As much as is necessary at this juncture, I retorted. Then seeing him about to repeat his bow, I added sharply. You need not trouble yourself to show me too much politeness. If I meddle in this matter at all, it will not be as your co-agitor, but as your rival. My rival? Yes, your rival, and rivals are never good friends until one of them is hopelessly defeated. Miss Butterworth, I see myself already at your feet. And with this sally and a short chuckle which did more than anything he had said towards settling me, in my half-form determination, to do as I had threatened, he opened the door and quietly disappeared. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 The Little Pincushion The verdict rendered by the coroner's jury showed it to be a more discriminating set of men than I had calculated upon. It was murder inflicted by a hand unknown. I was so gratified by this that I left the courtroom in quite an agitated frame of mind, so agitated indeed, that I walked through one door instead of another and thus came unexpectedly, upon a group formed almost exclusively of the Van Burnham family. Starting back for I dislike anything that looks like intrusion, especially when no great end is to be gained by it, I was about to retrace my steps when I felt two soft arms about my neck. Oh, Miss Butterworth, isn't it a mercy that this dreadful thing is over? I don't know when I have ever felt anything so keenly. It was Isabella Van Burnham. Startled for the embraces bestowed on me are few, I gave a subdued sort of grunt, which nevertheless did not displease this young lady, for her arms tightened, and she murmured in my ear, You dear old soul, I like you so much! We are going to be very good neighbors, who distill sweeter voice in my other ear. Papa says we must call on you soon, and Caroline's demure face looked around into mine in a manner some would have thought exceedingly bewitching. Thank you, pretty poppets! I returned, freeing myself as speedily as possible, from embraces the sincerity of which I felt open to question. My house is always open to you, and with little ceremony I walked steadily out and betook myself to the carriage awaiting me. I looked upon this display of feeling as the mere gush of two overexcited young women, and was therefore somewhat astonished when I was interrupted in my afternoon nap, by an announcement that the two Mrs. Van Burnham awaited me in the parlor. Going down I saw them standing there hand in hand, and both as white as a sheet. Oh, Miss Butterworth, they cried, springing towards me. Howard has been arrested, and we have no one to say a word of comfort to us. Arrested, I repeated, greatly surprised, for I had not expected it to happen so soon, if it happened at all. Yes, and Father is just about prostrated. Franklin too, but he keeps up, while Father has shut himself into his room, and won't see anybody, not even us. Oh, I don't know how we are to bear it, such a disgrace, and such a wicked, wicked shame! For Howard never had anything to do with his wife's death had he, Miss Butterworth. No, I returned, taking my ground at once, and vigorously, for I really believed what I said, he is innocent of her death, and I would like the chance of proving it. They evidently had not expected such an unqualified assertion from me, for they almost smothered me with kisses, and called me their only friend, and indeed showed so much real feeling, this time, that I neither pushed them away nor tried to withdraw myself from their embraces. When their emotions were a little exhausted, I led them to a sofa and sat down before them. They were motherless girls, and my heart, if hard, is not made of adamant or entirely unsusceptible to the calls of pity and friendship. Girls, said I, if you will be calm I should like to ask you a few questions. Ask us anything, returned Isabella, nobody has more right to our confidence than you. This was another of their exaggerated expressions, but I was so anxious to hear what they had to tell, I let it pass. So instead of rebuking them, I asked, where their brother had been arrested, and found it had been at his rooms, and in presence of themselves and Franklin. So I inquired further and learned that so far as they knew, nothing had been discovered beyond what had come out at the inquest, except that Howard's trunks had been found packed, as if he had been making preparations for a journey when interrupted by the dreadful event which had put him in the hands of the police. As there was a certain significance in this, the girls seemed almost as much impressed by it as I would. But we did not discuss it long, for I suddenly changed my manner, and taking them both by the hand, asked if they could keep a secret. Secret, they gasped? Yes, a secret, you are not the girls I should confide in ordinarily, but this trouble has sobered you. Oh, we can do anything, began Isabella, and only try us, murmured Caroline. But knowing the volubility of the one and the weakness of the other, I shook my head at their promises and merely tried to impress them with the fact that their brother's safety depended upon their discretion. At which they looked very determined for puppets and squeezed my hands so tightly that I wished I had left off some of my rings before engaging in this interview. When they were quiet again and ready to listen, I told them my plans. They were surprised, of course, and wondered how I could do anything towards finding out the real murderer of their sister-in-law. But seeing how resolved I looked changed their tone, and avowed with much feeling their perfect confidence in me, and in the success of anything I might undertake. This was encouraging and ignoring their momentary distrust, I proceeded to say. But for me to be successful in this matter, no one must know my interest in it. You must pay me no visits, give me no confidences. Nor, if you can help it, mention my name before anyone, not even before your father and brother. So much for precautionary measures, my dears, and now for the active ones. I have no curiosity, as I think you must see, but I shall have to ask you a few questions which under other circumstances would savor more or less of impertinence. Had your sister-in-law any special admirers among the other sex? Oh, protested Caroline shrinking back, while Isabella's eyes grew round as a frightened child. None that we ever heard of. She wasn't that kind of a woman, was she, Belle? It wasn't for any such reason, Papa didn't like her. No, no, that would have been too dreadful. It was her family we objected to, that's all. Well, well, I apologize tapping their hands reassuringly. I only asked, let me now say, from curiosity, though I have not a particle of that quality, I assure you. Did you think, did you have any idea, faltered Caroline, that, never mind, I interrupted, you must let my words go in one ear and out of the other after you have answered them? I wish, here I assumed a brisk air, that I could go through your parlours again before every trace of the crime perpetrated there has been removed. Why, you can, replied Isabella. There is no one in them now, added Caroline. Franklin went out just before we left. At which I blandly rose and following their leadership soon found myself once again in the Van Burnham mansion. My first glance upon re-entering the parlours was naturally directed toward the spot where the tragedy had taken place. The cabinet had been replaced in the shelves set back upon it, but the letter were empty and neither on them nor on the adjacent mantelpiece did I see the clock. This set me thinking, and I made up my mind to have another look at that clock. By dint of judicious questions I found that it had been carried into the third room, where we soon found it lying on a shelf of the same closet where the hat had been discovered by Mr. Grice. Franklin had put it there fearing that the sight of it might affect Howard, and from the fact that the hands stood as I had left them I gathered that neither he nor any of the family had discovered that it was in running condition. A short of this I astonished them by requesting to have it taken down and set up on the table, which they had no sooner done than it started to tick just as it had done under my hand a few nights before. The girls greatly startled surveyed each other wonderingly. Why, it's going, cried Caroline. Who could have wound it? marveled Isabella. Hark, I cried, the clock had begun to strike. It gave forth five clear notes. Well, it's a mystery, Isabella exclaimed, then seeing no astonishment in my face she added. Did you know about this, Miss Butterworth? My dear girls, I hasten to say, with all the impressiveness characteristic of me in my more serious moments, I do not expect you to ask me for any information I do not volunteer. This is hard, I know, but some day I will be perfectly frank with you. Are you willing to accept my aid on these terms? Oh, yes, they gasped, but they looked not a little disappointed. And now, said I, leave the clock where it is, and when your brother comes home, show it to him, and say that having the curiosity to examine it, you were surprised to find it going, and that you had left it there for him to see. He will be surprised also, and as a consequence, will question first you and then the police to find out who wound it. If they acknowledge having done it, you must notify me at once, for that's what I want to know. Do you understand, Caroline? And Isabella, do you feel that you can go through all this without dropping a word concerning me and my interest in this matter? Of course, they answered yes, and of course it was with so much effusiveness that I was obliged to remind them that they must keep check on their enthusiasm, and also to suggest that they should not come to my house, or send me any notes, but simply a blank card signifying no one knows who wound the clock. How delightfully mysterious, cried Isabella, and with this girlish exclamation our talk in regard to the clock closed. The next object that attracted our attention was a paper-covered novel I discovered on a side table in the same room. Whose is this, I asked? Not mine. Not mine. Yet it was published this summer, I remarked. They stared at me astonished, and Isabella caught up the book. It was one of those summer publications intended mainly for railroad distribution, and while neither ragged nor soiled bore evidence of having been read. Let me take it, said I. Isabella at once passed it into my hands. Does your brother smoke, I asked? Which brother? Either of them. Franklin sometimes, but Howard never, it disagrees with him, I believe. There is a faint odor of tobacco about these pages. Can it have been brought here by Franklin? Oh no, he never reads novels. Not such novels as this at all events. He loses a lot of pleasure, we think. I turned the pages over. The latter ones were so fresh I could almost put my finger on the spot where the reader had left off. Feeling like a bloodhound who had just run upon a trail, I returned the book to Caroline with the injunction to put it away, adding, as I saw her, air of hesitation. If your brother Franklin misses it, it will show that he brought it here, and then I shall have no further interest in it, which seemed to satisfy her, for she put it away at once on a high shelf. Perceiving nothing else in these rooms of a suggestive character, I led the way into the hall. There I had a new idea. Which of you was the first to go through the rooms upstairs, I inquired? Both of us, answered Isabella, we came together. Why do you ask, Miss Butterworth? I was wondering if you found everything in order there. We did not notice anything wrong, did we, Caroline? Do you think that the person who committed that awful crime went upstairs? I couldn't sleep a wink if I thought so. Nor I, Caroline put in, oh, don't say that he went upstairs, Miss Butterworth. I do not know it, I rejoined. But you asked. And I ask again, wasn't there some little thing out of its usual place? I was up in your front chamber after water for a minute, but I didn't touch anything but a mug. We missed the mug. But, oh, Caroline, the pin cushion! Do you suppose Miss Butterworth means the pin cushion? I started. Did she refer to the one I had picked up from the floor and placed on a side table? What about the pin cushion? I asked. Oh, nothing, but we did not know what to make of its being on the table. You see, we had a little pin cushion shaped like a tomato, which always hung at the side of our bureau. It was tied to one of the brackets and was never taken off. Caroline having a fancy for it because it kept her favorite black pins out of the reach of the neighbor's children when they came here. While this cushion, this sacred cushion, which none of us dared touch, was found by us on a little table by the door, with the ribbon hanging from it by which it had been tied to the bureau. Someone had pulled it off, and very roughly, too, for the ribbon was all ragged and torn. But there is nothing in a little thing like that to interest you, is there, Miss Butterworth? No, said I, not relating my part in the affair. Not if our neighbor's children were the marauders. But none of them came in for days before we left. Are there pins in the cushion? When we found it, do you mean? No. I did not remember seeing any, but one could not always trust one's memory. But you had left pins in it? Possibly, I don't remember. Why should I remember such a thing as that? I thought to myself, I would know whether I left pins on my pin-cushion or not. But everyone is not as methodical as I am, more is the pity. Have you anywhere about you a pin like those you keep on that cushion, I inquired of Caroline? She felt at her belt and neck and shook her head. I may have upstairs, she replied. Then get me one, but before she could start I pulled her back. Did either of you sleep in that room last night? No, we were going to, answered Isabella. But afterwards Caroline took a freak to sleep in one of the rooms on the third floor. She said she wanted to get away from the parlors, as far as possible. Then I should like a peep at the one overhead. The wrenching of the pin-cushion from its place had given me an idea. They looked at me wistfully as they turned to mount the stairs, but I did not enlighten them further. What would an idea be worth shared by them? Their father undoubtedly lay in the back room, for they moved very softly around the head of the stairs, but once in front let their tongues run loose again. I who cared nothing for their babble when it contained no information walked slowly about the room and finally stopped before the bed. It had a fresh look, and I at once asked them if it had been lately made up. They assured me that it had not, saying that they always kept their beds spread during their absence, as they did so hate to enter a room disfigured by bare mattresses. I could have read them a lecture on the niceties of housekeeping, but I refrained. Instead of that I pointed to a little dent in the smooth surface of the bed nearest the door. Did I the review to make that? I asked. They shook their heads in amazement. What is there in that? began Caroline. But I motioned her to bring me the little cushion, which she no sooner did, than I laid it in the little dent, which it fitted to a nicety. Your wonderful old thing, exclaimed Caroline, however did you think, but I stopped her enthusiasm with a look. I may be wonderful, but I am not old, and it is time they knew it. Mr. Grice is old, said I, and lifting the cushion I placed it on a perfectly smooth portion of the bed. Now take it up, said I, when low a second dent similar to the first. You see where that pin-cushion has lain before being placed on the table, I remarked. And reminding Caroline of the pin I wanted, I took my leave and returned to my own house, leaving behind me two girls as much filled with astonishment as the giddiness of their pates would allow. End of Chapter 18