 CHAPTER XXXIII Known, known, all known. Mr. Grice possesses one faculty for which I envy him, and that is his skill in the management of people. He had not been in Miss Althorpe's house five minutes before he had won her confidence and had everything he wished at his command. I had to talk some time before getting so far, but he, a word and a look, did it. Miss Oliver, for whom I hesitated to inquire, lest I should again find her gone or in a worse condition than when I left, was in reality better, and as we went upstairs I allowed myself to hope that the questions which had so troubled us would soon be answered and the mystery ended. But Mr. Grice evidently knew better, for when we reached her door he turned and said, Our task will not be an easy one. Go in first and attract her attention so that I can enter unobserved. I wished to study her before addressing her, but mind, no words about the murder leave that to me. I nodded, feeling that I was falling back into my own place and knocking softly entered the room. A maid was sitting with her, seeing me she rose in advance, saying, Miss Oliver is sleeping. Then I will relieve you, I returned, beckoning Mr. Grice to come in. The girl left us and we, too, contemplated the sick woman silently. Presently I saw Mr. Grice shake his head, but he did not tell me what he meant by it. Following the direction of his finger I sat down in a chair at the head of the bed. He took his station at the side of it in a large arm chair he saw there. As he did so I saw how fatherly and kindly he really looked, and wondered if he was in the habit of so preparing himself to meet the eye of all the suspected criminals he encountered. The thought made me glance again her way. She lay like a statue and her face naturally round, but now thinned out and hollow, looked up from the pillow in pitiful quiet, the long lashes accentuating the dark places under her eyes. A sad face the saddest I ever saw, and one of the most haunting. He seemed to find it so also, for his expression of benevolent interest deepened with every passing moment, till suddenly she stirred, then he gave me a warning glance and stooping took her by the wrist and pulled out his watch. She was deceived by the action opening her eyes surveying him languidly for a moment, then heaving a great sigh turned aside her head. Don't tell me I am better, doctor, I do not want to live. The plaintiff tone, the refined accent, seemed to astonish him. Laying down her hand he answered gently, I do not like to hear that from such young lips, but it assures me that I was correct in my first surmise, that it is not medicine you need but a friend. And I can be that friend if you will but allow me. If encouraged for an instant she turned her head from side to side, probably to see if they were alone, and not observing me answered softly. You are very good, very thoughtful, doctor, but, and hear her despair returned again, it is useless you can do nothing for me. You think so, remonstrated the old detective, but you do not know me, child. Let me show you that I can be of benefit to you, and he drew from his pocket a little package, which he opened before her astonished eyes. Yesterday in your delirium you left these rings in an office downtown. As they are valuable I have brought them back to you, wasn't I right, my child? No, no, she started up, and her accents betrayed terror and anguish. I do not want them, I cannot bear to see them. They do not belong to me, they belong to them. To them? Whom do you mean by them? queried Mr. Grice insinuatingly. The, the Van Burnham's, is not that the name? Oh, do not make me talk, I am so weak, only take the rings back. I will, child, I will. Mr. Grice's voice was more than fatherly now, it was tender, really and sincerely tender. I will take them back, but to which of the brothers' shall I return them? To, he hesitated softly, to Franklin or to Howard. I expected to hear her respond, his manner was so gentle and apparently sincere. But though feverish and on the verge of wildness she had still some command over herself, and after giving him a look, the intensity of which called out a corresponding expression on his face, she faltered out. I, I don't care, I don't know either of the gentlemen, but to the one you call Howard, I think. The pause which followed was filled by the tap-tap of Mr. Grice's finger on his knee. That is the one who is in custody he observed at last, the other that is Franklin has gone scot-free thus far, I hear. No answer from her close shut lips. Still no answer. If you do not know either of these gentlemen he insinuated at last, how did you come to leave the rings at their office? I knew their names, I inquired my way. It is all a dream now. Please do not ask me questions. Oh doctor, do you not see I cannot bear it? He smiled, I never could smile like that under any circumstances, and softly padded her hand. I see it makes you suffer, he acknowledged, but I must make you suffer in order to do you any good. If you will tell me all you know about these rings, she passionately turned her head away. I might hope to restore you to health and happiness. You know with what they are associated. She made a slight motion, and that they are an invaluable clue to the murder of Mrs. Van Burnham. Another motion. How then my child did you come to have them? Her head, which was rolling to and fro on the pillow, stopped and she gasped rather than uttered, I was there. He knew this yet it was terrible to hear it from her lips. She was so young and had such an air of purity and innocence. But more heart rendering yet was the groan with which she burst forth in another moment, as if impelled by conscience to unburden herself from some overwhelming load. I took them, I could not help it, but I did not keep them, you know that I did not keep them. I am no thief doctor, whatever I am, I am no thief. Yes, yes, I see that, but why take them child, what were you doing in that house and whom were you with? She threw up her arms and made no reply. Will you not tell, he urged? A short silence, then a low, no, evidently rung from her by the deepest anguish. Mr. Gries heaved a sigh, the struggle was likely to be a more serious one than he had anticipated. Miss Oliver, said he, more facts are known in relation to this affair than you imagine. Though unsuspected at first, it has secretly been proven that the man who accompanied the woman into the house where the crime took place was Franklin Van Burnham. A low gasp from the bed in that was all. You know this to be correct, don't you, Miss Oliver? Oh, must you ask? She was writhing now, and I thought he must desist out of pure compassion, but detectives are made out of very stern stuff, and though he looked sorry he went inexorably on. Justice and a sincere desire to help you force me, my child. Were you not the woman who entered Mr. Van Burnham's house at midnight with this man? I entered the house, at midnight? Yes, and with this man? Silence. You do not speak, Miss Oliver? Again silence. It was Franklin who was with you at the Hotel D. She uttered a cry, and it was Franklin who connived at your change of clothing there, and advised or allowed you to dress yourself in a new suit from Altman's. Oh, she cried again. Then why should it not have been he who accompanied you to the Chinaman's, and afterwards took you in a second hack to the house in Gramercy Park? Known, known, all known, was her moan. Sin and crime cannot long remain hidden in this world, Miss Oliver. The police are acquainted with all your movements from the moment you left the Hotel D. That is why I have compassion on you. I wish to save you from the consequences of the crime you saw committed, but in which you took no hand. Oh, she exclaimed, in one involuntary burst, as she half rose to her knees, if you could save me from appearing in the matter at all, if you would let me run away. But Mr. Grice was not the man to give her hope on any such score. Impossible, Miss Oliver, you are the only person who can witness for the guilty. If I should let you go, the police would not. Then why not tell at once whose hands drew the hatpin from your hat and, Stop, she shrieked, stop, you kill me, I cannot bear it. If you bring that moment back to my mind I shall go mad. I feel the horror of it rising in me now. Be still, I pray you, for God's sake, to be still. This was mortal anguish, there was no acting in this. Even he was startled by the emotion he had raised, and sat for a moment without speaking. Then the necessity of providing against all further mistakes by fixing the guilt where it belonged drove him on again, and he said, Like many another woman before you you are trying to shield a guilty man at your own expense. But it is useless, Miss Oliver, the truth always comes to light. Be advised, then, and make a confidant of one who understands you better than you think. But she would not listen to this. No one understands me, I do not understand myself. I only know that I shall make a confidant of no one that I shall never speak, and turning from him she buried her head in the bed-clothes. To most men her tone and the action which accompanied it would have been final. But Mr. Grice possessed great patience. Waiting for just a moment till she seemed more composed, he murmured gently, Not if you must suffer more from your silence than from speaking. Not if men, I do not mean myself, child, for I am your friend, will think that you are to blame for the death of the woman whom you saw fall under a cruel stab and whose rings you have. I, her horror, was unmistakable, so were her surprise, her terror, and her shame. But she added nothing to the word she had uttered, and he was forced to say again. The world, and by that I mean both good people and bad, will believe all this. He will let them believe all this. Men have not the devotion of women. Alas, alas! It was a murmur rather than a cry, and she trembled so the bed shook visibly under her, but she made no response to the entreaty in his look and gesture, and he was compelled to draw back unsatisfied. When a few heavy minutes had passed, he spoke again, this time in a tone of sadness. Few men are worth such sacrifices, Miss Oliver, and a criminal never. But a woman is not moved by that thought. She should be moved by this, however. If either of these brothers is to blame in this matter, consideration for the guiltless one should lead you to mention the name of the guilty. But even this did not visibly affect her. I shall mention no names, said she. A sign will answer. I shall make no sign. Then Howard must go to his trial. A gasp, but no words. And Franklin proceed on his way undisturbed. She tried not to answer, but the words would come. Pray, God, I may never see such a struggle again. That is, as God wills. I can do nothing in the matter. And she sank back crushed and well-nigh insensible. Mr. Grice made no further effort to influence her. She is more unfortunate than wicked, was Mr. Grice's comment, as we stepped into the hall. Nevertheless watch her closely, for she is in just the mood to do herself a mischief. In an hour, or at the most, too, I shall have a woman here to help you. You can stay till then. All night, if you say so. That you must settle with Miss Althorp. As soon as Miss Oliver is up, I shall have a little scheme to propose, by means of which I hope to arrive at the truth of this affair. I must know which of these two men she is shielding. Then you think she did not kill Mrs. Van Burnham herself? I think the whole matter, one of the most puzzling mysteries that has ever come to the notice of the New York police. We are sure that the murdered woman was Mrs. Van Burnham, that this girl was present at her death, and that she availed herself of the opportunity afforded by that death, to make the exchange of clothing, which has given such a complicated twist to the whole affair. But beyond these facts we know little more than that it was Franklin Van Burnham who took her to the Gramercy Park House, and Howard, who was seen in the same vicinity some two or four hours later. But on which of these two, to fix the responsibility of Mrs. Van Burnham's death, is the question. She had a hand in it herself, I persisted, though it may have been without evil intent. No man ever carried that thing through without feminine help. To this opinion I shall stick, much as this girl draws upon my sympathies. I shall not try to persuade you to the contrary, but the point is to find out how much help and to whom it was given. And your scheme for doing this? Cannot be carried out till she is on her feet again, so cure her, Miss Butterworth, cure her. When she can go downstairs Ebenezer Grice will be on the scene to test his little scheme. I promised to do what I could, and when he was gone I set diligently to work to soothe the child, as he had called her, and get her in trim for the delicate meal which had been sent up. And whether it was owing to a change in my own feelings, or whether the talk with Mr. Grice had so unnerved her that any womanly ministration was welcome, she responded much more readily to my efforts than ever before, and in a little while lay in so calm and grateful a mood that I was actually sorry to see the nurse when she came. Saying that something might spring from an interview with Miss Althorp, whereby my departure from the house might be delayed, I descended to the library and was fortunate enough to find the mistress of the house there. She was sorting invitations and looked anxious and worried. You see me in a difficulty, Miss Butterworth. I had relied on Miss Oliver to oversee this work as well as to assist me in a great many other details, and I don't know of anyone whom I can get on short notice to take her place. My own engagements are many, and let me help you, I put in, with that cheerfulness her presence invariably inspires. I have nothing pressing calling me at home, and for once in my life I should like to take an active part in wedding festivities. It would make me feel quite young again. But she began. Oh, I hasten to say, you think I would be more of a hindrance to you than a help. That I would do the work, perhaps, but in my own way rather than in yours. Well, that would doubtless have been true of me a month since, but I have learned a great deal in the last few weeks. You will not ask me how. And now I stand ready to do your work in your way, and to take a great deal of pleasure in it, too. Ah, Miss Butterworth, she exclaimed with a burst of genuine feeling, which I would not have lost for the world. I always knew that you had a kind heart, and I am going to accept your offer in the same spirit in which it is made. So that was settled, and with it the possibility of my spending another night in this house. At ten o'clock I stole away from the library and the delightful company of Mr. Stone, who had insisted upon sharing my labours, and went up to Miss Oliver's room. I met the nurse at the door. You want to see her, said she. She's asleep, but does not rest very easily. I don't think I ever saw so pitiful a case. She moans continually, but not with physical pain. Yet she seems to have courage, too. For now and then she starts up with a loud cry. Listen. I did so, and this is what I heard. I do not want to live. Doctor, I do not want to live. Why do you try to make me better? That is what she is saying all the time, sad, isn't it? I acknowledged it to be so, but at the same time wondered if the girl were not right in wishing for death as a relief from her troubles. Early the next morning I inquired at her door again. Miss Oliver was better. Her fever had left her, and she wore a more natural look than at any time since I had seen her. But it was not an untroubled one, and it was with difficulty I met her eyes when she asked if they were coming for her that day, and if she could see Miss Althoq before she left. As she was not yet able to leave her bed I could easily answer her first question, but I knew too little of Mr. Gries's intentions to be able to reply to the second. But I was easy with this suffering woman, very easy, more easy than I ever supposed I could be with anyone so intimately associated with a crime. She seemed to accept my explanations as readily as she already had my presence, and I was struck again with surprise as I considered that my name had never aroused in her the least emotion. Miss Althoq has been so good to me I should like to thank her. From my despairing heart I should like to thank her. She said to me as I stood by her side before leaving. Do you know, she went on, catching me by the dress as I was turning away, what kind of a man she is going to marry? She has such a loving heart, and marriage is such a fearful risk. Fearful, I repeated. Is it not fearful, to give one's whole soul to a man and be met by—I must not talk of it, I must not think of it, but is he a good man? Does he love Miss Althoq? Will she be happy? I have no right to ask perhaps, but my gratitude towards her is such that I wish her every joy and pleasure. Miss Althoq has chosen well, I rejoined. Mr. Stone is a man in ten thousand. The sigh that answered me went to my heart. I will pray for her, she murmured, that will be something to live for. I did not know what reply to make to this. Everything which this girl said and did was so unexpected and so convincing in its sincerity that I felt moved by her even against my better judgment. I pitied her, and yet I dared not urge her on to speak, lest I should fail in my task of making her well. I therefore confined myself to a few haphazard expressions of sympathy and encouragement, and left her in the hands of the nurse. The next day Mr. Grice called. Your patient is better, said he. Much better was my cheerful reply. This afternoon she will be able to leave the house. Very good, have her down at half-past three, and I will be in front with the carriage. I dread it, I cried, but I will have her there. You are beginning to like her, Miss Butterworth. Take care. You will lose your head if your sympathies become engaged. It sits pretty firmly on my shoulders yet, I retorted, and as for sympathies you are full of them yourself. I saw how you looked at her yesterday. Bah! My looks! You cannot deceive me, Mr. Grice. You are as sorry for the girl as you can be, and so am I too. By the way, I do not think I should speak of her as a girl. For something she said yesterday I am convinced she is a married woman, and that her husband—well, madam, I will not give him a name, at least not before your scheme has been carried out. Are you ready for the undertaking? I will be this afternoon at half-past three she is to leave the house, not a minute before and not a minute later. Remember. CHAPTER XXXV. A RUSE. It was a new thing for me to enter into any scheme blindfold, but the past few weeks had taught me many lessons, and among them to trust a little in the judgment of others. Accordingly I was on hand with my patient at the hour designated, and as I supported her trembling steps down the stairs I endeavored not to betray the intense interest agitating me, or to awaken by my curiosity any further dread in her mind, than that involved by her departure from this home of bounty and good feeling, and her entrance upon an unknown and possibly much to be apprehended future. Mr. Grice was awaiting us in the lower hall, and as he caught sight of her slender figure and anxious face, his whole attitude became at once so protecting and so sympathetic I did not wonder at her failure to associate him with the police. As she stepped down to his side he gave her a genial nod, I am glad to see you so far on the road to recovery, he remarked. It shows me that my prophecy is correct, and that in a few days you will be quite yourself again. She looked at him wistfully. You seem to know so much about me, doctor. Perhaps you can tell me where they are going to take me. He lifted a tassel from a curtain nearby, looked at it, shook his head at it, and inquired quite irrelevantly. Have you been good by to Miss Althorp? Her eyes stole towards the parlours, and she whispered, as if half in awe of the splendor everywhere surrounding her, I have not had the opportunity, but I should be sorry to go without a word of thanks for her goodness. Is she at home? The tassel slipped from his hand. You will find her in a carriage at the door. She has an engagement out this afternoon, but wishes to say good-bye to you before leaving. Oh, how kind she is, burst from the girl's white lips, and with a hurried gesture she was making for the door when Mr. Gries stepped before her and opened it. Two carriages were drawn up in front, neither of which seemed to possess the elegance of so rich a woman's equipage. But Mr. Gries appeared satisfied, and pointing to the nearest one observed quietly. You are expected. If she does not open the carriage door for you, do not hesitate to do it yourself. She has something of importance to say to you. Miss Oliver looked surprised but prepared to obey him. Steadying herself by the stone balustrade, she slowly descended the steps and advanced towards the carriage. I watched her from the doorway and Mr. Gries from the vestibule. It seemed an ordinary situation, but something in the latter's face convinced me that interests of no small moment depended upon the interview about to take place. But before I could decide upon their nature or satisfy myself as to the full meaning of Mr. Gries's manner, she had started back from the carriage door and was saying to him in a tone of modest embarrassment, There is a gentleman in the carriage. You must have made some mistake. Mr. Gries, who had evidently expected a different result from his stratagem, hesitated for a moment, during which I felt that he read her through and through, then he responded lightly. I made a mistake, eh? Oh, possibly. Look on the other carriage, my child. With an unaffected air of confidence she turned to do so, and I turned to watch her. For I began to understand the scheme at which I was assisting, and foresaw that the emotion she had failed to betray at the door of the first carriage might not necessarily be lacking on the opening of the second. I was all the more assured of this, from the fact that Miss Elthorpe's stately figure was very plainly to be seen at the moment, not in the coach Miss Oliver was approaching, but in an elegant Victoria just turning the corner. My expectations were realized, for no sooner had the poor girl swung open the door of the second hack than her whole body succumbed to a shock so great that I expected to see her fall in a heap on the pavement. But she steadied herself up with a determined effort, and with a sudden movement full of subdued fury jumped into the carriage and violently shut the door, just as the first carriage drove off to give place to Miss Elthorpe's turnout. Huh! Spring from Mr. Gries's lips, in a tone so full of varied emotions, that it was with difficulty I refrained from rushing down the stoop to see for myself who was the occupant of the coach into which my late patient had so passionately precipitated herself. But the sight of Miss Elthorpe being helped to the ground by her attendant lover recalled me so suddenly to my own anomalous position on her stoop that I let my first impulse pass and concerned myself instead with the formation of those apologies I thought necessary to the occasion. But those apologies were never uttered. Mr. Gries, with the infinite tact he displays in all serious emergencies, came to my rescue and so distracted Miss Elthorpe's attention that she failed to observe that she had interrupted a situation of no small moment. Meanwhile the coach containing Miss Oliver had had a signal from the wary detective drawn off in the wake of the first one, and I had the doubtful satisfaction of seeing them both roll down the street, without my having penetrated the secretive either. A glance from Mr. Stone who had followed Miss Elthorpe up the stoop interrupted Mr. Gries's flow of eloquence, and a few minutes later I found myself making those ado which I had hoped to avoid by departing in Miss Elthorpe's absence. Another instant and I was hastening down the street, in the direction taken by the two carriages, one of which had paused at the corner a few rods off. But, spry as I am for one of my settled habits and sedate character, I found myself passed by Mr. Gries, and when I would have accelerated my steps he darted forward quite like a boy, and without a word of explanation or any acknowledgement of the mutual understanding which certainly existed between us, leapt into the carriage I was endeavouring to reach, and was driven away. But not before I caught a glimpse of Miss Oliver's grey dress inside. Determined not to be baffled by this man, I turned about and followed the other carriage. It was approaching a crowded part of the avenue, and in a few minutes I had the gratification of seeing it come to a stand still only a few feet from the curb-stone. The opportunity thus afforded me of satisfying my curiosity was not to be slighted. Without pausing to consider consequences or to question the propriety of my conduct, I stepped boldly up in front of its half-lowered window and looked in. There was but one person inside, and that person was Franklin Van Burnham. What was I to conclude from this, that the occupant of the other carriage was Howard, and that Mr. Grice now knew with which of the two brothers Miss Oliver's memories were associated? End of Chapter 35 End of Book 3 Book 4 The End of a Great Mystery Chapter 36 The Result I was as much surprised at this result of Mr. Grice's scheme as he was, and possibly I was more chagrined. But I shall not enter into my feelings on the subject, or weary you any further with my conjectures. You will be much more interested, I know, in learning what occurred to Mr. Grice upon entering the carriage holding Miss Oliver. He had expected from the intense emotion she displayed at the site of Howard Van Burnham, for I was not mistaken as to the identity of the person occupying the carriage with her, to find her flushed with the passions incident upon this meeting, and her companion in a condition of mind which would make it no longer possible for him to deny his connection with this woman and his consequently guilty complicity in a murder to which both were linked by so many incriminating circumstances. But for all his experience the detective was disappointed in this expectation, as he had been in so many others connected with this case. There was nothing in Miss Oliver's attitude to indicate that she had unburdened herself of any of the emotions with which she was so grievously agitated, nor was there on Mr. Van Burnham's part any deeper manifestation of feeling, than a slight glow on his cheek, and even that disappeared under the detective's scrutiny, leaving him as composed and imperturbable as he had been in his memorable inquisition before the coroner. Disappointed and yet in a measure exhilarated by this sudden check in plans, he had thought too well laid for failure, Mr. Grice surveyed the young girl more carefully, and saw that he had not been mistaken in regard to the force or extent of the feelings which had driven her into Mr. Van Burnham's presence. And turning back to that gentleman was about to give utterance to some very pertinent remarks, when he was forestalled by Mr. Van Burnham inquiring in his old calm way which nothing seemed able to disturb. Who is this crazy girl you have forced upon me? If I had known I was to be subjected to such companionship I should not have regarded my outing so favorably. Mr. Grice, who never allowed himself to be surprised by anything a suspected criminal might do or say, surveyed him quietly for a moment, then turned towards Miss Oliver. You hear what this gentleman calls you, said he? Her face was hidden by her hands, but she dropped them as the detective addressed her, showing a countenance so distorted by passion that it stopped the current of his thoughts and made him question whether the epithet bestowed upon her by their somewhat callous companion was entirely unjustified. But soon the something else, which was in her face restored his confidence in her sanity, and he saw that while her reason might be shaken it was not yet dethroned, and that he had good cause to expect sooner or later some action from a woman whose misery could wear an aspect of such desperate resolution. That he was not the only one affected by the force and desperate character of her glance became presently apparent, for Mr. Van Burnham with a more kindly tone than he had previously used observed quietly. I see the lady is suffering, I beg pardon for my inconsiderate words, I have no wish to insult the unhappy. Never was Mr. Grice so nonplussed. There was a mingled courtesy and composure in the speaker's manner, which was as far removed as possible from the strained effort at self-possession, which marks suppressed passion or secret fear. While in the vacant look with which she met these words there was neither anger nor scorn nor indeed any of the passions one would expect to see there. The detective consequently did not force the situation but only watched her more and more attentively till her eyes fell and she crouched away from them both. Then he said, You can name this gentleman, can you not, Miss Oliver, even if he does not choose to recognize you? But her answer if she made one was inaudible, and the sole result which Mr. Grice obtained from this venture was a quick look from Mr. Van Burnham and the following uncompromising words from his lips. If you think this young girl knows me, or that I know her, you are greatly mistaken, she is as much of a stranger to me as I am to her, and I take this opportunity of saying so. I hope my liberty and good name are not to be made dependent upon the word of a miserable waif like this. Your liberty and your good name will depend upon your innocence, retorted Mr. Grice, and said no more, feeling himself at a disadvantage before the imperturbability of this man and the silent, non-accusing attitude of this woman from the shock of whose passions he had anticipated so much and obtained so little. Meantime they were moving rapidly towards police headquarters and fearing that the sight of that place might alarm Miss Oliver more than was well for her, he strove again to rouse her by a kindly word or so. But it was useless. She evidently tried to pay attention and follow the words he used, but her thoughts were too busy over the one great subject that engrossed her. A bad case murmured Mr. Van Burnham, and with the phrase seemed to dismiss all thought of her. A bad case, echoed Mr. Grice, but seeing how fast the look of resolution was replacing her previous aspect of frenzy, one that will do mischief yet to the man who has deceived her. The stopping of the carriage roused her, looking up she spoke for the first time. I want a police officer, she said. Mr. Grice, with all his assurance restored, leaped to the ground and held out his hand. I will take you into the presence of one, said he. And she, without a glance at Mr. Van Burnham, whose knee she brushed in passing, leaped to the ground and turned her face towards police headquarters. Red for you to-day by Don Larson in Minnesota. That affair next door by Anna K. Green, Chapter 37. Two weeks. But before she was well in, her countenance changed. No, said she. I want to think first. Give me time to think. I dare not say a word without thinking. Truth needs no consideration. If you wish to denounce this man, her look, said she did. Then now is the time. She gave him a sharp glance the first she had bestowed upon him since leaving Miss Althorps. You are no doctor, she declared. Are you a police officer? I am a detective. Oh, and she hesitated for a moment, shrinking from him, with very natural distrust and aversion. I have been in the toils, then, without knowing it. No wonder I am caught. But I am no criminal, sir, and if you are the one most in authority here, I beg the privilege of a few words with you before I am put into confinement. I will take you before the superintendent, said Mr. Grice. But do you wish to go alone? Shall not Mr. Van Burnham accompany you? Mr. Van Burnham? Is it not he you wish to denounce? I do not wish to denounce any one to-day. What do you wish, asked Mr. Grice? Let me see the man who has power to hold me here or let me go and I will tell him. Very well, said Mr. Grice, and led her into the presence of the superintendent. She was at this moment quite a different person from what she had been in the carriage. All that was girlish in her aspect or appealing in her bearing had faded away, evidently forever, and left in its place something at once so desperate and so deadly that she seemed not only a woman, but one of a very determined and dangerous nature. Her manner, however, was quiet, and it was only in her eye that one could see how near she was to frenzy. She spoke before the superintendent could address her. Sir, said she, I have been brought here on account of a fearful crime. I was unhappy enough to witness. I myself am innocent of that crime. But so far as I know, there is no other living person save the guilty man who committed it, who can tell you how or why, or by whom it was done. One man has been arrested for it and another has not. If you will give me two weeks of complete freedom, I will point out to you which is the veritable man of blood and may heaven have mercy on his soul. She is mad, signified the superintendent in bi-play to Mr. Grice, but the latter shook his head. She was not mad, yet. I know she continued, without a hint of timidity, which seemed natural to her under other circumstances, that this must seem a presumptuous request from one like me, but it is only by granting it that you will ever be able to lay your hands on the murderer of Mrs. Van Burnham. For I will never speak if I cannot speak in my own way and at my own time. The agonies I have suffered must have some compensation, otherwise I should die of horror and my grief. And how do you hope to gain compensation by this delay, expostulated the superintendent, would you not meet with more satisfaction in denouncing him here and now, before he can pass another night in fancied security? But she only repeated, I have said two weeks and two weeks I must have. Two weeks in which to come and go as I please. Two weeks. And no argument they could advance succeeded in eliciting from her any other response, or in altering in any way her air of quiet determination with its underlying suggestion of frenzy. Acknowledging their mutual defeat by a look, the superintendent and detective drew off to one side and something like the following conversation took place between them. You think she's sane? I do. And will remain so two weeks? If humored. You are sure she is implicated in this crime? She was a witness to it. And that she speaks the truth when she declares that she is the only person who can point out the criminal? Yes, that is, she is the only one who will do it. The attitude taken by the Van Burnems, especially by Howard just now in the presence of this girl, shows how little we have to expect from them. Yet you think they know as much as she does about it? I do not know what to think. For once I am baffled superintendent. Every passion which this woman possesses was roused by her unexpected meeting with Howard Van Burnem. And yet their indifference when confronted, as well as her present action, seems to argue a lack of connection between them which overthrows at once the theory of his guilt. Was it the sight of Franklin then, which really affected her? And was her apparent indifference at meeting him only in evidence of her self-control? It seems an impossible conclusion to draw. And indeed there are nothing but hitches and improbable features in this case. Nothing fits. Nothing jibes. I get just so far in it and then I run up against a wall. Either there is a superhuman power of duplicity in the persons who contrived this murder or we are on the wrong tack altogether. In other words you have tried every means known to you to get at the truth of this matter and failed? I have, sir, sorry as I may be to acknowledge it. Then we must accept her terms. She can be shadowed? Every moment. Very well then. Extreme cases must be met by extreme measures. We will let her have her swing and see what comes of it. Revenge is a great weapon in the hands of a determined woman, and from her look I think she will make the most of it. And returning to where the young girl stood, the superintendent asked her whether she felt sure the murderer would not escape in the time that must elapse before his apprehension. Instantly her cheek, which had looked as if it could never show color again, flushed a deep and painful scarlet and she cried vehemently, if any hint of what is here passing should reach him I should be powerless to prevent his flight. Swear then that my very existence shall be kept a secret between you too, or I will do nothing towards his apprehension. No, not even to save the innocent. We will not swear, but we will promise return the superintendent. And now when may we expect to hear from you again? Two weeks from to-night as the clock strikes eight. Be wherever I may chance to be at that hour and see on whose arm I lay my hand. It will be that of the man who killed Mrs. Van Burnham. CHAPTER XXXVIII. A white satin gown. The events just related did not come to my knowledge for some days after they occurred, but I have recorded them at this time that I might in some way prepare you for an interview which shortly after took place between myself and Mr. Grice. I had not seen him since our rather unsatisfactory parting in front of Miss L. Thorpe's and the suspense which I had endured in the interim made my greeting unnecessarily warm. But he took it all very naturally. You are glad to see me, said he. Been wondering what has become of Miss Oliver? Well, she is in good hands with Mrs. Desperger, in short a woman whom I believe you know. With Mrs. Desperger I was surprised. Why, I have been looking every day in the papers for an account of her arrest. No doubt, he answered, but we police are slow, we are not ready to arrest her yet. Meanwhile, you can do us a favour. She wants to see you, are you willing to visit her? My answer contained but little of the curiosity and eagerness I really felt. I am always at your command. Do you wish me to go now? Miss Oliver is impatient, he admitted. Her fever is better, but she is in an excited condition of mind which makes her a little unreasonable. To be plain she is not quite herself, and while we still hope something from her testimony we are leaving her very much to her own devices and do not cross her in anything. You will therefore listen to what she says and, if possible, aid her in anything she might undertake, unless it points directly towards self-destruction. My opinion is that she will surprise you, but you are becoming accustomed to surprises, are you not? Thanks to you I am. Very well, then. I have but one more suggestion to make. You are working for the police now, madam, and nothing that you see or learn in connection with this girl is to be kept back from us. Am I understood? Perfectly, but it is only proper for me to retort that I am not entirely pleased with the part you assign me. Could you not have left thus much to my good sense and not put it into so many words? Ah, madam, the case at present is too serious for risks of that kind. Mr. Van Burnham's reputation, to say nothing of his life, depends upon our knowledge of this girl's secret. Surely you can stretch a point in a matter of so much moment. I have already stretched several, and I can stretch one more, but I hope the girl won't look at me too often with those miserable appealing eyes of hers. They make me feel like a traitor. You will not be troubled by any appeal in them. The appeal has vanished. Something harder and even more difficult to meet is to be found in them now, wrath, purpose, and a desire for vengeance. She is not the same woman I assure you. Well, I sighed, I am sorry. There is something about the girl that lays hold of me, and I hate to see such a change in her. Did she ask for me by name? I believe so. I cannot understand her wanting me, but I will go, and I won't leave her either till she shows me, she is tired of me. I am as anxious to see the end of this matter as you are. Then, with some vague idea that I had earned a right to some show of confidence on his part, I added insinuatingly, I suppose you would feel the case settled when she almost fainted at the sight of the younger Mr. Van Burnham. The old ambiguous smile I remembered so well came to modify his brusque rejoinder. If she had been a woman like you I should, but she is a deep one, Miss Butterworth, too deep for the success of a little ruse like mine. Are you ready? I was not, but it did not take me long to be so, and before an hour had elapsed I was seated in Mrs. Desperger's parlour in Ninth Street. Miss Oliver was in, and Air Long made her appearance. She was dressed in street costume. I was prepared for a change in her, and yet the shock I felt when I first saw her face must have been apparent, for she immediately remarked, You find me quite well, Miss Butterworth. For this I am partially indebted to you. You were very good to nurse me so carefully. Will you be still kinder and help me in a new matter which I feel quite incompetent to undertake alone? Her face was flushed her manner nervous, but her eyes had an extraordinary look in them which affected me most painfully, notwithstanding the additional effect it gave to her beauty. Certainly, said I, what can I do for you? I wish to buy me a dress, was her unexpected reply, a handsome dress. Do you object to showing me the best shops? I am a stranger in New York. More astonished than I can express, but carefully concealing it in remembrance of the caution received from Mr. Gice, I replied that I would be only too happy to accompany her on such an errand. Upon which she lost her nervousness and prepared at once to go out with me. I would have asked Mrs. Desperger she observed while fitting on her gloves, but her taste, here she cast a significant look about the room, is not quite enough for me. I should think not, I cried. I shall be a trouble to you, the girl went on with a gleam in her eye that spoke of the restless spirit within. I have many things to buy, and they must all be rich and handsome. If you have money enough there will be no trouble about that. Oh, I have money! She spoke like a millionaire's daughter. Shall we go to Arnold's? As I always traded at Arnold's I readily acquiesced, and we left the house. But not before she had tied a very thick veil over her face. If we meet to any one do not introduce me, she begged. I cannot talk to people. You may rest easy, I assured her. At the corner she stopped. Is there any way of getting a carriage? She asked. Do you want one? Yes. I signaled a hack. Now for the dress, she cried. We rode at once to Arnold's. What kind of a dress do you want, I inquired as we entered the store. An evening one, a white satin, I think. I could not help the exclamation which escaped me, but I covered it up as quickly as possible by a hurried remark in favor of white, and we proceeded at once to the silk counter. I will trust it all to you, she whispered in an odd choked tone, as the clerk approached us. Get what you would for your daughter. No, no. For Mr. Van Burnham's daughter, if he has one, and do not spare expense. I have five hundred dollars in my pocket. Mr. Van Burnham's daughter, well, well, a tragedy of some kind was pretending, but I bought the dress. Now said she, lace and whatever else I need to make it up suitably, and I must have slippers and gloves. You know what a young girl requires to make her look like a lady. I want to look so well that the most critical eye will detect no fault in my appearance. It can be done, can it not, Miss Butterworth? My face and figure will not spoil the effect, will they? No, said I. You have a good face and a beautiful figure. You ought to look well. Are you going to a ball, my dear? I am going to a ball, she answered, but her tone was so strange, the people passing us turned to look at her. Let us have everything sent to the carriage, said she, and went with me from counter to counter with her ready purse in her hand, but not once lifting her veil to look at what was offered us, saying over and over as I sought to consult her in regard to some article, by the richest I leave it all to you. Had Mr. Grice not told me she must be humored, I could never have gone through this ordeal. To see a girl thus expend her hoarded savings on such frivolities was absolutely painful to me, and more than once I was tempted to decline any further participation in such extravagance. But a thought of my obligations to Mr. Grice restrained me, and I went on spending the poor girl's dollars with more pain to myself than if I had taken them out of my own pocket. Having purchased all the articles we thought necessary, we were returning towards the door when Miss Oliver whispered, wait for me in the carriage for just a few minutes. I have one more thing to buy, and I must do it alone. But, I began, I will do it and I will not be followed, she insisted, in a shrill tone that made me jump, and seeing no other way of preventing a scene I let her leave me though it cost me an anxious fifteen minutes. When she rejoined me, as she did at the expiration of that time, I eyed the bundle she held with decided curiosity. But I could make no guess at its contents. Now she cried as she receded herself and closed the carriage door, where shall we find a dressmaker able and willing to make up this satin in five days? I could not tell her, but after some little search, we succeeded in finding a woman who engaged to make an elegant costume in the time given her. The first measurements were taken, and we drove back to Ninth Street, with a lasting memory in my mind of the cold and rigid form of Miss Oliver, standing up in Madame's triangular parlor, submitting to the mechanical touches of the modest, with an outward composure, but with a brooding horror in her eyes that bespoke an inward torment. CHAPTER XXXIX THE WATCHFUL EYE As I parted with Miss Oliver on Mrs. Desperger's stoop, and did not visit her again in that house, I will introduce the report of a person better situated than myself, to observe the girl during the next few days. That the person thus alluded to was a woman in the service of the police, is evident, and, as such, may not meet with your approval, but her words are of interest, as witness. FRIDAY P.M. Party went out to-day in company with an elderly female of respectable appearance. Said elderly female wears puffs, and moves with great precision, I say this in case her identification should prove necessary. I had been warned that Miss O. would probably go out, and as the man set to watch the front door was on duty, I occupied myself during her absence, in making a neat little hole in the partitions between our two rooms, so that I should not be obliged to offend my next-door neighbor by two frequent visits to her apartment. This done I awaited her return, which was delayed till it was almost dark. When she did come in her arms were full of bundles. These she thrust into a bureau drawer, with the exception of one, which she laid with great care under her pillow. I wondered what this one could be but could get no inkling from its size or shape. Her manner when she took off her hat was fiercer than before, and a strange smile, which I had not previously observed on her lips, added force to her expression. But it paled after supper time, and she had a restless night. I could hear her walk the floor long after I thought it prudent on my part to retire, and at intervals through the night I was disturbed by her moaning, which was not that of a sick person, but of one very much afflicted in mind. Saturday, party quiet, sits most of the time with hands clasped on her knee before the fire. Given to quick starts as if suddenly awakened from an absorbing train of thought, a pitiful object, especially when seized by terror as she is at odd times. No walks, no visitors today. Once I heard her speak some words in a strange language, and once she drew herself up before the mirror in an attitude of so much dignity I was surprised at the fine appearance she made. The fire of her eyes at this moment was remarkable. I should not be surprised at any move she might make. Sunday. She has been writing today. But when she had filled several pages of letter paper, she suddenly tore them all up and threw them into the fire. Time seems to drag with her, for she goes every few minutes to the window from which a distant church clock is visible, and sighs as she turns away. More writing in the evening and some tears. But the writing was burned as before and the tears stopped by a laugh that augurs little good to the person who called it up. The package has been taken from under her pillow and put in some place not visible from my spyhole. Monday. Party out again today. Gone some two hours or more. When she returned she sat down before the mirror and began dressing her hair. She has fine hair, and she tried arranging it in several ways. None seemed to satisfy her and she tore it down again and let it hang till supper time, when she wound it up in its usual simple knot. Mrs. Desperger spent some minutes with her, but their talk was far from confidential, and therefore uninteresting. I wish people would speak louder when they talk to themselves. Tuesday. Great restlessness on the part of the young person I am watching. No quiet for her. No quiet for me. Yet she accomplishes nothing, and as yet has furnished me no clue to her thoughts. A huge box was brought into the room to-night. It seemed to cause her dread rather than pleasure, for she shrank at the side of it, and has not yet attempted to open it. But her eyes have never left it since it was set down on the floor. It looks like a dressmaker's box, but why such emotion over a gown. Wednesday. This morning she opened the box but did not display its contents. I caught one glimpse of a mass of tissue paper, and then she put the cover on again, and for a good half hour sat crouching down beside it, shuttering like one in an augu fit. I began to feel there was something deadly in the box. Her eyes wandered towards it so frequently and with such contradictory looks of dread and savage determination. When she got up it was to see how many more minutes of the wretched day had passed. Thursday, party sick, did not try to leave her bed. Breakfast brought up by Mrs. Desperger who showed her every attention, but could not prevail upon her to eat. Yet she would not let the tray be taken away, and when she was alone again or thought herself alone, she let her eyes rest so long on the knife lying across the plate that I grew nervous and could hardly restrain myself from rushing into the room. But I remembered my instructions and kept still even when I saw her hand steel towards this possible weapon, though I kept my own on the bell rope which fortunately hung at my side. She looked quite capable of wounding herself with the knife, but after balancing it a moment in her hand, she laid it down again and turned with a low moan to the wall. She will not attempt death till she has accomplished what is in her mind. Friday, all is right in the next room, that is, the young lady is up, but there is another change in her appearance since last night. She has grown contemptuous of herself and indulges in less brooding. But her impatience at the slow passage of time continues, and her interest in the box is even greater than before. She does not open it, however, only looks at it and lays her trembling hand now and then on the cover. Saturday, a blank day, party dull and very quiet. Her eyes began to look like ghastly hollows in her pale face. She talks to herself continually but in a low mechanical way, exceedingly wearing to the listener, especially as no word can be distinguished. Tried to see her in her own room today, but she would not admit me. Sunday, I have noticed from the first a Bible laying on one end of her mantle shelf. Today she noticed it also and impulsively reached out her hand to take it down. But at the first word she read she gave a low cry and hastily closed the book and put it back. Later, however, she took it again and read several chapters. The result was a softening in her manner, but she went to bed as flushed and determined as ever. Monday, she has walked the floor all day. She has seen no one and seems scarcely able to contain her impatience. She cannot stand this long. Tuesday. My surprises began in the morning. As soon as her room had been put in order, Miss O locked the door and began to open her bundles. First she unrolled a pair of white silk stockings, which she carefully but without any show of interest laid on the bed. Then she opened a package containing gloves. They were white also and evidently of the finest quality. Then a lace handkerchief was brought to light, slippers, an evening fan, and a pair of fancy pins. And lastly she opened the mysterious box and took out a dress so rich in quality and of such simple elegance it almost took my breath away. It was white and made of the heaviest satin, and it looked as much out of place in that shabby room as its owner did in the moments of exultation of which I have spoken. Though her face was flushed when she lifted out the gown, it became pale again when she saw it lying across her bed. Indeed a look of passionate abhorrence characterized her features as she contemplated it, and her hands went up before her eyes and she reeled back uttering the first words I have been able to distinguish since I have been on duty. They were violent in character and seemed to tear their way through her lips almost without her volition. It is hate, I feel, nothing but hate, ah, if it were only duty that animated me. Later she grew calmer and covering up the whole pair of finalia with a stray sheet she had evidently laid by for the purpose she sent for Mrs. Desperger. When that lady came in she met her with a wand but by no means dubious smile and ignoring with quiet dignity the very evident curiosity with which that good woman surveyed the bed, she said appealingly, You have been so kind to me, Mrs. Desperger, that I am going to tell you a secret. Will it continue to remain a secret or shall I see it in the faces of all my fellow-borders tomorrow? You can imagine Mrs. Desperger's reply, also the manner in which it was delivered, but not Miss Oliver's secret. She uttered it in these words. I am going out to-night, Mrs. Desperger. I am going into great society. I am going to attend Miss Althorp's wedding. Then as the good woman stammered out some words of surprise and pleasure she went on to say, I do not want anyone to know it and I would be so glad if I could slip out of the house without anyone seeing me. I shall need a carriage but you will get one for me, will you not, and let me know the moment it comes. I am shy of what folks say and besides, as you know, I am neither happy nor well if I do go to weddings and have new dresses and she nearly broke down but collected herself with wonderful promptitude and with a coaxing look that made her almost ghastly. So much it seemed out of accord with her strained and unnatural manner. She raised the corner of the sheet saying, I will show you my gown if you will promise to help me quietly out of the house, which of course produced the desired effect upon Mrs. Desperger, that woman's greatest weakness being her love of dress. So from that hour I knew what to expect and after sending precautionary advices to police headquarters I set myself to watch her prepare for the evening. I saw her arrange her hair and put on her elegant gown and was as much startled by the result as if I had not had the least premonition that she only needed rich clothes to look both beautiful and distinguished. The square parcel she had once hidden under her pillow was brought out and laid on the bed. And when Mrs. Desperger's low knock announced the arrival of the carriage she caught it up and hid under the cloak she hastily threw about her. Mrs. Desperger came in and put out the light, but before the room sank into darkness I caught one glimpse of Miss Oliver's face. Its expression was terrible beyond anything I had ever seen on any human countenance. End of Chapter 39 CHAPTER 40 As the clock struck I do not attend weddings in general, but great as my suspense was in reference to Miss Oliver I felt that I could not miss seeing Miss Elthorpe married. I had ordered a new dress for the occasion and was in the best of spirits as I rode to the church in which the ceremony was to be performed. The excitement of a great social occasion was for once not disagreeable to me, nor did I mind the crowd, though it pushed me about rather uncomfortably till an usher came to my assistance and seated me in a pew, which I was happy to see commanded a fine view of the chancel. I was early, but then I always am early, and having ample opportunity for observation I noted every fine detail of ornamentation with approval. Miss Elthorpe's taste being of that fine order which always falls short of ostentation. Her friends are in very many instances my friends, and it was no small part of my pleasure to note their well-known faces among the crowd of those that were strange to me. That the scene was brilliant and that silk, satins, and diamonds abounded goes without saying. At last the church was full and the hush which usually precedes the coming of the bride was settling over the whole assemblage, when I suddenly observed in the person of a respectable-looking gentleman seated in a side pew the form and features of Mr. Grice, the detective. This was a shock to me, yet what was there in his presence there to alarm me? Might not Miss Elthorpe have accorded him this pleasure out of pure goodness of her heart? I did not look at anybody else, however, after once my eyes fell upon him, but continued to watch his expression, which was noncommittal though a little anxious for one engaged in a purely social function. The entrance of the clergyman in the sudden peel of the organ in the well-known wedding march recalled my attention to the occasion itself, and as at that moment the bridegroom stepped from the vestry to await his bride at the altar, I was absorbed by his fine appearance in the air of mingled pride and happiness with which he watched the stately approach of the bridal possession. But suddenly there was a stir through the whole glittering assemblage, and the clergyman made a move and the bridegroom gave a start, and the sounds, light as it was, of moving feet grew still, and I saw advancing from the door, on the opposite side of the altar, a second bride, clad in white and surrounded by a long veil which completely hid her face, a second bride, and the first was halfway up the aisle, and only one bridegroom stood ready. The clergyman, who seemed to have as little command of his faculties as the rest of us, tried to speak, but the approaching woman upon whom every regard was fixed, forestalled him by an authoritative gesture. Moving towards the chancel, she took her place on the spot reserved for Miss Althorpe. Silence had filled the church up to this moment, but at this audacious move a solitary wailing cry of mingled astonishment and despair went up behind us. But before any of us could turn, and while my own heart stood still, for I thought I recognized this veiled figure, the woman at the altar raised her hand and pointed towards the bridegroom. Why does he hesitate, she cried, does he not recognize the only woman with whom he dare face God and man at the altar? Because I am already his wedded wife, and have been so for five long years, does this make my wearing of this veil amiss when he, a husband, unreleased by the law, dares enter this sacred place with the hope and expectation of a bridegroom? It was Ruth Oliver who spoke. I recognized her voice as I had recognized her apparel, but the emotions aroused in me by her presence, and the almost incredible claims she advanced, were lost in the horror inspired by the man she thus vehemently accused. No lost spirit from the pit could have shown a more hideous commingling of the most terrible passions known to man than he did in the face of this terrible arraignment. And if Ella Althorp cowering in her shame and misery half way up the aisle, saw him in all his depravity at that instant as I did, nothing could have saved her long cherished love from immediate death. Yet he tried to speak, it is false he cried, all false. The woman I once called wife is dead. Dead? Olive Randolph? Murderer, she exclaimed. The blow struck in the dark found another victim, and pulling the veil from her face, Ruth Oliver advanced to his side and laid her trembling hand with a firm and decisive movement on his arm. Was it her words, her touch, or the sound of the clock striking eight in the great tower over our heads, which so totally overwhelmed him? As the last stroke of the hour which was to have seen him united with Miss Althorp died out in the odd spaces above him, he gave a cry such as I am sure never resounded between those sacred walls before, and sank in a heap on the spot, where but a few minutes previous he had lifted his head in all the glow and pride of a prospective bridegroom. End of Chapter 40 Chapter 41 of that affair next door. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read for you today by John Larson in Minnesota. That Affair Next Door by Anna Kay Green Chapter 41 It was hours before I found myself able to realize that the scene I had just witnessed had a deeper and much more dreadful significance than appeared to the general eye, and that Ruth Oliver, in her desperate interruption of these treacherous nuptials, had not only made good her prior claim to Randolph Stone as her husband, but had pointed him out to all the world as the villainous author of that crime which for so long a time had occupied my own and the public's attention. Thinking that you may find the same difficulty in grasping this terrible fact, and being anxious to save you from the suspense under which I myself labored for so many hours, I here subjoin a written statement made by this woman some weeks later, in which the whole mystery is explained. It is signed Olive Randolph, the name to which she evidently feels herself best entitled. The man known in New York City as Randolph Stone was first seen by me in Michigan five years ago. His name then was John Randolph, and how he has since come to add to this further appellation of Stone I must leave to himself to explain. I was born in Michigan myself, until my eighteenth year I lived with my father, who was a widower without any other child, in a little low cottage amid the sand mounds that border the eastern side of the lake. I was not pretty, but every man who passed me on the beach or in the streets of the little town where we went to market and to church, stopped to look at me, and this I noticed, and from this perhaps my unhappiness arose. For before I was old enough to know the difference between poverty and riches, I began to lose all interest in my simple home duties, and to cast longing looks at the great school building where girls like myself learned to speak like ladies and played the piano. Yet these ambitious promptings might have come to nothing if I had never met him. I might have settled down in my own sphere and lived a useful if unsatisfied life, like my mother and my mother's mother before her. But fate had reserved me for wretchedness, and one day, just as I was on the verge of my eighteenth year, I saw John Randolph. I was coming out of church when our eyes first met, and I noticed after the first shock my simple heart received from his handsome face and elegant appearance, that he was surveying me with that strange look of admiration I had seen before on so many faces, and the joy this gave me, and the certainty which came with it of my seeing him again, made that moment quite unlike any other in my whole life, and was the beginning of that passion which has undone me, ruined him, and brought death and sorrow to many others of more worth than either of us. He was not a resident of the town but a passing visitor, and his intention had been, as he has since told me, to leave the place on the following day. But the dart which had pierced my breast had not glanced entirely aside from his, and he remained, as he declared, to see what there was in this little country girl's face to make it so unforgettable. We met first on the beach and afterwards under the strip of pines which separate our cottage from the sand mounds, and though I have no reason to believe he came to these interviews with any honest purpose or deep sincerity of feeling, it is certain he exerted all his powers to make them memorable to me, and that, in doing so, he awoke some of the fire in his own breast, which he took such wicked pleasure in arousing in mine. In fact he soon showed that this was so, for I could take no step from the house without encountering him, and the one indelible impression remaining to me from those days is the expression his face wore, as one sunny afternoon he laid my hand on his arm and drew me away to have a look at the lake, booming on the beach below us. There was no love in it as I understand love now, but the passion which informed it almost amounted to intoxication, and if such a passion can be understood between a man, already cultivated, and a girl who hardly knew how to read, it may in a measure account for what followed. My father, who was no fool, and who saw the selfish quality in this attractive lover of mine, was alarmed by our growing intimacy. Taking an opportunity when we were both in a more sensible mood than common, he put the case before Mr. Randolph in a very decided way. He told him that either he must marry me at once or quit seeing me altogether. No delay was to be considered and no compromise allowed. As my father was a man with whom no one ever disputed, John Randolph prepared to leave the town, declaring that he could marry no one at that stage of his career. But before he could carry out his intention, the old intoxication returned, and he came back in a fever of love and impatience to marry me. Had I been older or more experienced in the ways of the world, I would have known that such passion as this evens to a short lived, that there is no witchery in a smile lasting enough to make men like him forget the lack of social graces to which they are accustomed. But I was mad with happiness, and was unconscious of any cloud lowering upon our future, till the day of our first separation came, when an event occurred which showed me what I might expect if I could not speedily raise myself to his level. We were out walking, and we met a lady who had known Mr. Randolph elsewhere. She was well dressed, which I was not. Though I had not realized it till I saw how attractive she looked in quiet colors, and with only a simple ribbon on her hat. Then she had, besides a way of speaking, which made my tones sound harsh, and robbed me of that feeling of superiority with which I had hitherto regarded all the girls of my acquaintance. But it was not her possession of these advantages keenly as I felt them, which awakened me to the sense of my position. It was the surprise she showed, a surprise the source of which was not to be mistaken, when he introduced me to her as his wife. And though she recovered herself in a moment, and tried to be kind and gracious, I felt the sting of it and saw that he felt it too, and consequently was not at all astonished when, after she had passed us, he turned and looked at me critically for the first time. But his way of showing his dissatisfaction gave me a shock it took me years to recover from. Take off that hat, he cried, and when I had obeyed him he tore out the spray, which to my eyes had been its chief adornment, and threw it in some bushes nearby. Then he gave me back the hat, and asked for the silk neckerchief, which I had regarded as the glory of my bridal costume. Giving it to him I saw him put it in his pocket, and understanding, thou, that he was trying to make me look more like the lady we had passed, I cried out passionately. It is not these things that make the difference, John, but my voice and my way of walking and speaking. Give me money and let me be educated, and then we will see if any other woman can draw your eyes away from me. But he had received a shock that made him cruel. You cannot make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, he sneered, and was silent all the rest of the way home. I was silent, too, for I never talk when I am angry, but when we arrived in our own little room I confronted him. Are you going to say any more such cruel things to me, I asked? For if you are, I should like you to say them now and be done with it. He looked desperately angry, but there was yet a little love left in his heart for me, for he laughed after he had looked at me for a minute, and took me in his arms and said some fine things with which he had previously won my heart, but not with the old fire and not with the old effect upon me. Yet my love had not grown cold, it had only changed from the unthinking stage to the thinking one, and I was quite in earnest when I said, I know I am not as pretty or as nice as the ladies you are accustomed to, but I have a heart that has never known any other passion than its love for you, and from such a heart you ought to expect a lady to grow, and their will, only give me the chance, John, only let me learn to read and write. But he was in an incredulous state of mind, and it ended in his going away without making any arrangements for my education. He was bound for San Francisco where he had business to transact, and he promised to be back in four weeks, but before the four weeks he lapsed he wrote me that it would be five, and later on that it would be six, and afterwards that it would be when he had finished a big piece of work he was engaged upon, and which would bring him a large amount of money. I believed him, and I doubted him at the same time, but I was not altogether sorry he delayed his return, for I had begun school on my own account, and was fast laying the foundation of a solid education. My means came from my father, who now it was too late, saw the necessity of my improving myself. The amount of studying I did that first year was amazing, but it was nothing to what I went through the second, for my husband's letters had begun to fail me, and I was forced to work in order to drown grief, and keep myself from despair. Only no letters came at all, and when the second year was over, and I could at least express myself correctly. I woke to the realization that, so far as my husband was concerned, I had gone through all this labour for nothing, and that unless by some fortunate chance I could light upon some clue to his whereabouts, in the great world beyond our little town, I would be likely to pass the remainder of my days in widowhood and desolation. My father dying at this time and leaving me a thousand dollars, I knew no better way of spending it than in the hopeless search I have just mentioned. Accordingly after his burial I started out on my travels, gaining experience with every mile. I had not been away a week before I realized what a folly I had indulged in, in ever hoping to see John Randolph back at my side. I saw the homes in which such men as he lived, and met in cars and on steamboats the kind of people with whom he must associate to be happy, and a gulf seemed to open between us, which even such love as mine would be powerless to bridge. But though my hope thus sank in my breast, I did not lose my old ambition of making myself as worthy of him as circumstances would permit. I read only the best books, and I allowed myself to become acquainted with only the best people, and as I saw myself liked by such, the awkwardness of my manner gradually disappeared, and I began to feel that the day would come when I should be universally recognized as a lady. Meantime I did not advance an iota in the object of my journey, and at last with every expectation gone of ever seeing my husband again, I made my way to Toledo. Here I speedily found employment, and what was better still to one of my ambitious tendencies, an opportunity to add to the sum of my accomplishments, a knowledge of French and music. The French I learned from the family I lived with, and the music from a professor in the same house, whose love for his pet art was so great that he found its simple happiness to impart it to one so greedy for improvement as myself. Here in course of time I also learned typewriting, and it was for the purpose of seeking employment in this capacity that I finally came to New York. This was three months ago. I was in complete ignorance of the city when I entered it, and for a day or two I wandered to and fro, searching for a suitable lodging-house. It was while I was on my way to Mrs. Despergers that I saw advancing toward me a gentleman in whose air and manner I detected a resemblance to the husband who some five years since had deserted me. The shock was too much for myself control. Quaking in every limb I stood awaiting his approach, and when he came up to me and I saw by his startled recognition of me that it was indeed he, I gave a loud cry and threw myself upon his arm. The start he gave was nothing to the frightful expression which crossed his face at this encounter, but I thought both due to his surprise, though now I am convinced they had their origin in the deepest and worst emotions of which a man is capable. John, John, I cried, and could say no more, for the agitations of five solitary, despairing years were choking me, but he was entirely voiceless, stricken, I have no doubt beyond any power of mind to realize. How could I dream that in consideration, power, and prestige he had advanced even more rapidly than myself, and that at this moment he was not only the idol of society, but on the verge of uniting himself to a woman, I will not say of marrying her, for marry her he could not while I lived, who would make him the envied possessor of millions. Such fortune, such daring, yes and such depravity were beyond the reach of my imagination, and while I thought his pleasure less than mine, I did not dream that my existence was a menace to all his hopes, and that during this moment of speechlessness he was sounding his nature for means to rid himself of me even at the cost of my life. His first movement was to push me away, but I clung to him all the harder, at which his whole manner changed, and he began to make futile efforts to calm me and lead me away from the spot. Seeing that these attempts were unavailing, he turned pale and raised his arm up passionately, but speedily dropped it again, and casting glances this way and that broke suddenly into a loud laugh and became as by the touch of a magician's wand my old lover again. Why, Olive, he cried, why, Olive, is it you? Did I say my name was Olive? Happily met, my dear. I did not know what I had been missing all these years, but now I know it was you. Will you come with me or shall I go home with you? I have no home, said I. I have just come into town. Then I see but one alternative. He smiled and what a power there was in his smile when he chose to exert it. You must come to my apartments, are you willing? I am your wife, I answered. He had taken me on his arm by this time, and the recoil he made at these words was quite perceptible, but his face still smiled, and I was too mad with joy to be critical. And a very pretty and charming wife you have become, said he, drawing me on for a few steps. Finally he paused and I felt the old shadow fall between us again. But your dress is very shabby, he remarked. It was not. It was not near as shabby as the linen duster he himself wore. Is that rain he inquired looking up as a drop or two fell? Yes, it is raining. Very well, let us go into this store we are coming to and buy a gossamer. That will cover up your gown. I cannot take you to my house dressed as you are now. Surprised for I had thought my dress very neat and ladylike, but never dreaming of questioning his taste any more than in the old days in Michigan, I went with him into the shop he had pointed out, and bought me a gossamer for which he paid. When he had helped me put it on, and had tied my veil well over my face, he seemed more at ease and gave me his arm quite cheerfully. Now said he, you look well, but how about the time when you will have to take the gossamer off? I tell you what it is, my dear. You will have to refit yourself entirely before I shall be satisfied. And again I saw him cast about him that furtive and inquiring look, which would have awakened more surprise in me than it did, had I known that we were in a part of the city where he ran but little chance of meeting any one he knew. This old duster I have on, he suddenly laughed, is a very appropriate companion to your gossamer, and though I did not agree with him, for my clothes were new, and his old and shabby, I laughed also and never dreamed of evil. As this garment which so disfigured him that morning has been the occasion of much false speculation on the part of those whose business it was to inquire into the crime with which it is in a most unhappy way connected, I may as well explain here and now why so fastidious a gentleman as Randolph Stone came to wear it. The gentleman called Howard Van Burnham was not the only person who visited the Van Burnham offices on the morning preceding the murder. Randolph Stone was there also, but he did not see the brothers, for finding them closeted together he decided not to interrupt them. As he was a frequent visitor there his presence created no remark, nor was his departure noted. Descending the stairs separating the offices from the street he was about to leave the building when he noticed that the clouds looked ominous. Being dressed for a luncheon with Miss Elthorpe he felt averse to getting wet, so he stepped back into the adjoining hall and began groping for an umbrella in a little closet under the stairs where he had once before found such an article. While doing this he heard the younger Van Burnham descend and go out and realizing that he could now see Franklin without difficulty he was about to return upstairs when he heard that gentleman also come down and follow his brother into the street. His first impulse was to join him, but finding nothing but an old duster in the closet he gave up this intention and putting on this shabby but protecting garment started for his apartments little realizing into what a course of duplicity and crime it was destined to lead him. For to the wearing of this old duster on this special morning innocent as the occasion was I attribute John Randolph's temptation to murder. Had he gone out without it he would have taken his usual course up Broadway and never met me. Or even if he had taken the same roundabout way to his apartments as that which led to our encounter he would never have dared in his ordinary fine dress conspicuous as it made him to have entered upon those measures which as he is clever enough to know led to disgrace if they do not end in a felon's cell. It was John Randolph then or Randolph Stone as he is pleased to call himself in New York and not Franklin Van Burnham who had doubtless proceeded in another direction who came up to where Howard had stood saw the keys he had dropped and put them in his own pocket. It was as innocent in action as the donning of the duster and yet it was fraught with the worst consequences to himself and to others. Being of the same height and complexion as Franklin Van Burnham and both gentlemen wearing at that time a mustache my husband shaved his off after the murder. The mistakes which arose out of this strange equipment were but natural. Seen from the rear or in the semi darkness of a hotel office they might look alike though to me or to anyone studying them well their faces are really very different. But to return, leaving me through streets of which I knew nothing, he presently stopped before the entrance of a large hotel. I tell you what, Olive said he, we had better go in here, take a room and send for such things as you require to make you look like a lady. As I had no objection to anything which kept me at his side I told him that whatever suited him suited me and followed him quite eagerly into the office. I did not know then that this hotel was a second-rate one, not having had experience with the best. But if I had I should not have wondered at his choice, for there was nothing in his appearance as I have already intimated or in his manners up to this point to lead me to think he was one of the city's great swells, and that it was only in such an unfashionable house as this he would be likely to pass unrecognized. How, with his markedly handsome features and distinguished bearing, he managed to so carry himself as to look like a man of inferior breeding I can no more explain than I can the singular change which took place in him when once he found himself in the midst of the crowd which lounged about this office. From a man to attract all eyes he became at once a man to attract none and slouched and looked so ordinary that I stared at him in astonishment, little thinking that he had assumed this manner as a disguise. Seeing me at a loss he spoke up quite preemptively. Let us keep our secret, Olive, till you can appear in the world full-fledged, and look here, darling, won't you go to the desk and ask for a room? I am no hand at any such business. Confounded at a proposition so unexpected, but too much under the spell of my feelings to dispute his wishes I faltered out. But supposing they ask me to register. At which he gave me a look which recalled the old days in Michigan and quietly sneered. Give them a fictitious name. You have learned to write by this time, have you not? Long by his taunt, but more in love with him than ever, for his momentary display of passion had made him look both masterful and handsome I went up to the desk to do his bidding. A room said I, and when asked to write our names in the book that lay before me I put down the first that suggested itself. I wrote with my gloves on which was why the writing looked so queer that it was taken for a disguised hand. This done he rejoined me and we went upstairs and I was too happy to be in his company again to wonder at his peculiarities or way the consequences of the implicit confidence I accorded him. I was desperately in love once more and entered into every plan he proposed without a thought beyond the joyous present. He was so handsome without his hat and when after some short delay he threw aside the duster I felt myself for the first time in my life in the presence of a finished gentleman. Then his manner was so changed. He was so like his oldest and best self, so dangerously like what he was in those long vanished hours under the pines in my sand swept home on the shores of Lake Michigan, that he faltered at times and sank into strange spells of silence which had something in them that made my breath come fitfully, did not awaken my apprehension, or roused in me more than a passing curiosity. I thought he regretted the past and when, after one such pause in our conversation, he drew out of his pocket a couple of keys tied together with a string and surveyed the card attached to them with a strange look. Easy enough to be understood by me now, I only laughed at his abstraction and indulged him in a fresh caress to make him more mindful of my presence. These keys were the ones which Mrs. Van Burnham's husband had dropped, and which he had picked up before meeting me and after he had put them back into his pocket he became more talkative than before and more systematically lover-like. I think he had not seen his way clearly until that moment, the dark and dreadful way which was to end as he supposed in my death. But I feared nothing, suspected nothing. Such deep and desperate wickedness, as he was planning, was beyond the wildest flight of my imagination. When he insisted upon sending for a complete set of clothing for me, and when at his dictation I wrote a list of the articles I wanted, I thought he was influenced by his wish as my husband to see me dressed in articles of his own buying. That it was all a plot to rob me of my identity could not strike such a mind as mine, and when the packages came and were received by him in the sly way already known to the public, I saw nothing in his caution but a playful display of mystery that was to end in my romantic establishment in a home of love and luxury. End of Part 1 of Chapter 41