Chapter 1

"What door is that? You've opened all the others; why do you pass
that one by?"

"Oh, that! That's only Number 3. A mere closet, gentlemen,"
responded the landlord in a pleasant voice. "To be sure, we
sometimes use it as a sleeping-room when we are hard pushed. Jake,
the clerk you saw below, used it last night. But it's not on our
regular list. Do you want a peep at it?"

"Most assuredly. As you know, it's our duty to see every room in
this house, whether it is on your regular list or not."

"All right. I haven't the key of this one with me. But--yes, I
have. There, gentlemen!" he cried, unlocking the door and holding it
open for them to look inside. "You see it no more answers the young
lady's description than the others do. And I haven't another to show
you. You have seen all those in front, and this is the last one in
the rear. You'll have to believe our story. The old lady never put
foot in this tavern."

The two men he addressed peered into the shadowy recesses before
them, and one of them, a tall and uncommonly good-looking young man
of stalwart build and unusually earnest manner, stepped softly
inside. He was a gentleman farmer living near, recently appointed
deputy sheriff on account of a recent outbreak of horse-stealing in
the neighborhood.

"I observe," he remarked, after a hurried glance about him, "that the
paper on these walls is not at all like that she describes. She was
very particular about the paper; said that it was of a muddy pink
color and had big scrolls on it which seemed to move and crawl about
in whirls as you looked at it. This paper is blue and striped.
Otherwise--

"Let's go below," suggested his companion, who, from the deference
with which his most casual word was received, was evidently a man of
some authority. "It's cold here, and there are several new questions
I should like to put to the young lady. Mr. Quimby,"--this to the
landlord, "I've no doubt you are right, but we'll give this poor girl
another chance. I believe in giving every one the utmost chance
possible."

"My reputation is in your hands, Coroner Golden," was the quiet
reply. Then, as they both turned, "my reputation against the word of
an obviously demented girl."

The words made their own echo. As the third man moved to follow the
other two into the hall, he seemed to catch this echo, for he
involuntarily cast another look behind him as if expectant of some
contradiction reaching him from the bare and melancholy walls he was
leaving. But no such contradiction came. Instead, he appeared to
read confirmation there of the landlord's plain and unembittered
statement. The dull blue paper with its old-fashioned and
uninteresting stripes seemed to have disfigured the walls for years.
It was not only grimy with age, but showed here and there huge
discolored spots, especially around the stovepipe-hole high up on the
left-hand side. Certainly he was a dreamer to doubt such plain
evidences as these. Yet--

Here his eye encountered Quimby's, and pulling himself up short, he
hastily fell into the wake of his comrade now hastening down the
narrow passage to the wider hall in front. Had it occurred to him to
turn again before rounding the corner--but no, I doubt if he would
have learned anything even then. The closing of a door by a careful
hand--the slipping up behind him of an eager and noiseless step--what
is there in these to re-awaken curiosity and fix suspicion? Nothing,
when the man concerned is Jacob Quimby; nothing. Better that he
failed to look back; it left his judgment freer for the question
confronting him in the room below.

Three Forks Tavern has been long forgotten, but at the time of which
I write it was a well-known but little-frequented house, situated
just back of the highway on the verge of the forest lying between the
two towns of Chester and Danton in southern Ohio. It was of ancient
build, and had all the picturesqueness of age and the English
traditions of its original builder. Though so near two thriving
towns, it retained its own quality of apparent remoteness from city
life and city ways. This in a measure was made possible by the
nearness of the woods which almost enveloped it; but the character of
the man who ran it had still more to do with it, his sympathies being
entirely with the old, and not at all with the new, as witness the
old-style glazing still retained in its ancient doorway. This, while
it appealed to a certain class of summer boarders, did not so much
meet the wants of the casual traveler, so that while the house might
from some reason or other be overfilled one night, it was just as
likely to be almost empty the next, save for the faithful few who
loved the woods and the ancient ways of the easy-mannered host and
his attentive, soft-stepping help. The building itself was of wooden
construction, high in front and low in the rear, with gables toward
the highway, projecting here and there above a strip of rude
old-fashioned carving. These gables were new, that is, they were
only a century old; the portion now called the extension, in the
passages of which we first found the men we have introduced to you,
was the original house. Then it may have enjoyed the sunshine and
air of the valley it overlooked, but now it was so hemmed in by yards
and out-buildings as to be considered the most undesirable part of
the house, and Number 3 the most undesirable of its rooms; which
certainly does not speak well for it.

But we are getting away from our new friends and their mysterious
errand. As I have already intimated, this tavern with the curious
name (a name totally unsuggestive, by the way, of its location on a
perfectly straight road) had for its southern aspect the road and a
broad expanse beyond of varied landscape which made the front rooms
cheerful even on a cloudy day; but it was otherwise with those in the
rear and on the north end. They were never cheerful, and especially
toward night were frequently so dark that artificial light was
resorted to as early as three o'clock in the afternoon. It was so
to-day in the remote parlor which these three now entered. A lamp
had been lit, though the daylight still struggled feebly in, and it
was in this conflicting light that there rose up before them the
vision of a woman, who seen at any time and in any place would have
drawn, if not held, the eye, but seen in her present attitude and at
such a moment of question and suspense, struck the imagination with a
force likely to fix her image forever in the mind, if not in the
heart, of a sympathetic observer.

I should like to picture her as she stood there, because the
impression she made at this instant determined the future action of
the man I have introduced to you as not quite satisfied with the
appearances he had observed above. Young, slender but vigorous, with
a face whose details you missed in the fire of her eye and the
wonderful red of her young, fresh but determined mouth, she stood, on
guard as it were, before a shrouded form on a couch at the far end of
the room. An imperative _Keep back!_ spoke in her look, her
attitude, and the silent gesture of one outspread hand, but it was
the _Keep back!_ of love, not of fear, the command of an outraged
soul, conscious of its rights and instinctively alert to maintain
them.

The landlord at sight of the rebuke thus given to their intrusion,
stepped forward with a conciliatory bow.

"I beg pardon," said he, "but these gentlemen, Doctor Golden, the
coroner from Chester, and Mr. Hammersmith, wish to ask you a few more
questions about your mother's death. You will answer them, I am
sure."

Slowly her eyes moved till they met those of the speaker.

"I am anxious to do so," said she, in a voice rich with many
emotions. But seeing the open compassion in the landlord's face, the
color left her cheeks, almost her lips, and drawing back the hand
which she had continued to hold outstretched, she threw a glance of
helpless inquiry about her which touched the younger man's heart and
induced him to say:

"The truth should not be hard to find in a case like this. I'm sure
the young lady can explain. Doctor Golden, are you ready for her
story?"

The coroner, who had been silent up till now, probably from sheer
surprise at the beauty and simple, natural elegance of the woman
caught, as he believed, in a net of dreadful tragedy, roused himself
at this direct question, and bowing with an assumption of dignity far
from encouraging to the man and woman anxiously watching him, replied:

"We will hear what she has to say, of course, but the facts are well
known. The woman she calls mother was found early this morning lying
on her face in the adjoining woods quite dead. She had fallen over a
half-concealed root, and with such force that she never moved again.
If her daughter was with her at the time, then that daughter fled
without attempting to raise her. The condition and position of the
wound on the dead woman's forehead, together with such corroborative
facts as have since come to light, preclude all argument on this
point. But we'll listen to the young woman, notwithstanding; she has
a right to speak, and she shall speak. Did not your mother die in
the woods? No hocus-pocus, miss, but the plain unvarnished truth."

"Sirs,"--the term was general, but her appeal appeared to be directed
solely to the one sympathetic figure before her, "if my mother died
in the wood--and, for all I can say, she may have done so--it was not
till after she had been in this house. She arrived in my company,
and was given a room. I saw the room and I saw her in it. I cannot
be deceived in this. If I am, then my mind has suddenly failed
me;--something which I find it hard to believe."

"Mr. Quimby, did Mrs. Demarest come to the house with Miss Demarest?"
inquired Mr. Hammersmith of the silent landlord.

"She says so," was the reply, accompanied by a compassionate shrug
which spoke volumes. "And I am quite sure she means it," he added,
with kindly emphasis. "But ask Jake, who was in the office all the
evening. Ask my wife, who saw the young lady to her room. Ask
anybody and everybody who was around the tavern last night. I'm not
the only one to say that Miss Demarest came in alone. All will tell
you that she arrived here without escort of any kind; declined
supper, but wanted a room, and when I hesitated to give it to her,
said by way of explanation of her lack of a companion that she had
had trouble in Chester and had left town very hurriedly for her home.
That her mother was coming to meet her and would probably arrive here
very soon. That when this occurred I was to notify her; but if a
gentleman called instead, I was to be very careful not to admit that
any such person as herself was in the house. Indeed, to avoid any
such possibility she prayed that her name might be left off the
register--a favor which I was slow in granting her, but which I
finally did, as you can see for yourselves."

"Oh!" came in indignant exclamation from the young woman before them.
"I understand my position now. This man has a bad conscience. He
has something to hide, or he would not take to lying about little
things like that. I never asked him to allow me to leave my name off
the register. On the contrary I wrote my name in it and my mother's
name, too. Let him bring the book here and you will see."

"We have seen," responded the coroner. "We looked in the register
ourselves. Your names are not there."

The flush of indignation which had crimsoned her cheeks faded till
she looked as startling and individual in her pallor as she had the
moment before in her passionate bloom.

"Not there?" fell from her lips in a frozen monotone as her eyes grew
fixed upon the faces before her and her hand went groping around for
some support.

Mr. Hammersmith approached with a chair.

"Sit," he whispered. Then, as she sank slowly into an attitude of
repose, he added gently, "You shall have every consideration. Only
tell the truth, the exact truth without any heightening from your
imagination, and, above all, don't be frightened."

She may have heard his words, but she gave no sign of comprehending
them. She was following the movements of the landlord, who had
slipped out to procure the register, and now stood holding it out
toward the coroner.

"Let her see for herself," he suggested, with a bland, almost
fatherly, air.

Doctor Golden took the book and approached Miss Demarest.

"Here is a name very unlike yours," he pointed out, as her eye fell
on the page he had opened to. "Annette Colvin, Lansing, Michigan."

"That is not my name or writing," said she.

"There is room below it for your name and that of your mother, but
the space is blank, do you see?"

"Yes, yes, I see," she admitted. "Yet I wrote my name in the book!
Or is it all a monstrous dream!"

The coroner returned the book to the landlord.

"Is this your only book?" he asked.

"The only book."

Miss Demarest's eyes flashed. Hammersmith, who had watched this
scene with intense interest, saw, or believed that he saw, in this
flash the natural indignation of a candid mind face to face with
arrant knavery. But when he forced himself to consider the
complacent Quimby he did not know what to think. His aspect of
self-confidence equaled hers. Indeed, he showed the greater poise.
Yet her tones rang true as she cried:

"You made up one plausible story, and you may well make up another.
I demand the privilege of relating the whole occurrence as I remember
it," she continued with an appealing look in the one sympathetic
direction. "Then you can listen to him."

"We desire nothing better," returned the coroner.

"I shall have to mention a circumstance very mortifying to myself,"
she proceeded, with a sudden effort at self-control, which commanded
the admiration even of the coroner. "My one adviser is dead," here
her eyes flashed for a moment toward the silent form behind her. "If
I make mistakes, if I seem unwomanly--but you have asked for the
truth and you shall have it, all of it. I have no father. Since
early this morning I have had no mother. But when I had, I found it
my duty to work for her as well as for myself, that she might have
the comforts she had been used to and could no longer afford. For
this purpose I sought a situation in Chester, and found one in a
family I had rather not name." A momentary tremor, quickly
suppressed, betrayed the agitation which this allusion cost her. "My
mother lived in Danton (the next town to the left). Anybody there
will tell you what a good woman she was. I had wished her to live in
Chester (that is, at first; later, I--I was glad she didn't), but she
had been born in Danton, and could not accustom herself to strange
surroundings. Once a week I went home, and once a week, usually on a
Wednesday, she would come and meet me on the highroad, for a little
visit. Once we met here, but this is a circumstance no one seems to
remember. I was very fond of my mother and she of me. Had I loved
no one else, I should have been happy still, and not been obliged to
face strangers over her body and bare the secrets of my heart to
preserve my good name. There is a man, he seems a thousand miles
away from me now, so much have I lived since yesterday. He--he lived
in the house where I did--was one of the family--always at
table--always before my eyes. He fancied me. I--I might have
fancied him had he been a better man. But he was far from being of
the sort my mother approved, and when he urged his suit too far, I
grew frightened and finally ran away. It was not so much that I
could not trust him," she bravely added after a moment of silent
confusion, "but that I could not trust myself. He had an unfortunate
influence over me, which I hated while I half yielded to it."

"You ran away. When was this?"

"Yesterday afternoon at about six. He had vowed that he would see me
again before the evening was over, and I took that way to prevent a
meeting. There was no other so simple,--or such was my thought at
the time. I did not dream that sorrows awaited me in this quiet
tavern, and perplexities so much greater than any which could have
followed a meeting with him that I feel my reason fail when I
contemplate them."

"Go on," urged the coroner, after a moment of uneasy silence. "Let
us hear what happened after you left your home in Chester."

"I went straight to the nearest telegraph office, and sent a message
to my mother. I told her I was coming home, and for her to meet me
on the road near this tavern. Then I went to Hudson's and had
supper, for I had not eaten before leaving my employer's. The sun
had set when I finally started, and I walked fast so as to reach
Three Forks before dark. If my mother had got the telegram at once,
which I calculated on her doing, as she lived next door to the
telegraph office in Danton, she would be very near this place on my
arrival here. So I began to look for her as soon as I entered the
woods. But I did not see her. I came as far as the tavern door, and
still I did not see her. But farther on, just where the road turns
to cross the railroad-track, I spied her coming, and ran to meet her.
She was glad to see me, but asked many questions which I had some
difficulty in answering. She saw this, and held me to the matter
till I had satisfied her. When this was done it was late and cold,
and we decided to come to the tavern for the night. And we came!
Nothing shall ever make me deny so positive a fact. We came, and
this man received us."

With her final repetition of this assertion, she rose and now stood
upright, with her finger pointing straight at Quimby. Had he cringed
or let his eyes waver from hers by so much as a hair's breadth, her
accusation would have stood and her cause been won. But not a
flicker disturbed the steady patience of his look, and Hammersmith,
who had made no effort to hide his anxiety to believe her story,
showed his disappointment with equal frankness as he asked:

"Who else was in the office? Surely Mr. Quimby was not there alone?"

She reseated herself before answering. Hammersmith could see the
effort she made to recall that simple scene. He found himself trying
to recall it, too--the old-fashioned, smoke-begrimed office, with its
one long window toward the road and the glass-paned door leading into
the hall of entrance. They had come in by that door and crossed to
the bar, which was also the desk in this curious old hostelry. He
could see them standing there in the light of possibly a solitary
lamp, the rest of the room in shadow unless a game of checkers were
on, which evidently was not so on this night. Had she turned her
head to peer into those shadows? It was not likely. She was
supported by her mother's presence, and this she was going to say.
By some strange telepathy that he would have laughed at a few hours
before, he feels confident of her words before she speaks. Yet he
listens intently as she finally looks up and answers:

"There was a man, I am sure there was a man somewhere at the other
end of the office. But I paid no attention to him. I was bargaining
for two rooms and registering my name and that of my mother."

"Two rooms; why two? You are not a fashionable young lady to require
a room alone."

"Gentlemen, I was tired. I had been through a wearing half-hour. I
knew that if we occupied the same room or even adjoining ones that
nothing could keep us from a night of useless and depressing
conversation. I did not feel equal to it, so I asked for two rooms a
short distance apart."

An explanation which could at least be accepted. Mr. Hammersmith
felt an increase of courage and scarcely winced as his colder-blooded
companion continued this unofficial examination by asking:

"Where were you standing when making these arrangements with Mr.
Quimby?"

"Right before the desk."

"And your mother?"

"She was at my left and a little behind me. She was a shy woman. I
usually took the lead when we were together."

"Was she veiled?" the coroner continued quietly.

"I think so. She had been crying--" The bereaved daughter paused.

"But don't you know?"

"My impression is that her veil was down when we came into the room.
She may have lifted it as she stood there. I know that it was lifted
as we went upstairs. I remember feeling glad that the lamps gave so
poor a light, she looked so distressed."

"Physically, do you mean, or mentally?"

Mr. Hammersmith asked this question. It seemed to rouse some new
train of thought in the girl's mind. For a minute she looked
intently at the speaker, then she replied in a disturbed tone:

"Both. I wonder----" Here her thought wavered and she ceased.

"Go on," ordered the coroner impatiently. "Tell your story. It
contradicts that of the landlord in almost every point, but we've
promised to hear it out, and we will."

Rousing, she hastened to obey him.

"Mr. Quimby told the truth when he said that he asked me if I would
have supper, also when he repeated what I said about a gentleman, but
not when he declared that I wished to be told if my mother should
come and ask for me. My mother was at my side all the time we stood
there talking, and I did not need to make any requests concerning
her. When we went to our rooms a woman accompanied us. He says she
is his wife. I should like to see that woman."

"I am here, miss," spoke up a voice from a murky corner no one had
thought of looking in till now.

Miss Demarest at once rose, waiting for the woman to come forward.
This she did with a quick, natural step which insensibly prepared the
mind for the brisk, assertive woman who now presented herself. Mr.
Hammersmith, at sight of her open, not unpleasing face, understood
for the first time the decided attitude of the coroner. If this
woman corroborated her husband's account, the poor young girl, with
her incongruous beauty and emotional temperament, would not have much
show. He looked to see her quailing now. But instead of that she
stood firm, determined, and feverishly beautiful.

"Let her tell you what took place upstairs," she cried. "She showed
us the rooms and carried water afterward to the one my mother
occupied."

"I am sorry to contradict the young lady," came in even tones from
the unembarrassed, motherly looking woman thus appealed to. "She
thinks that her mother was with her and that I conducted this mother
to another room after showing her to her own. I don't doubt in the
least that she has worked herself up to the point of absolutely
believing this. But the facts are these: She came alone and went to
her room unattended by any one but myself. And what is more, she
seemed entirely composed at the time, and I never thought of
suspecting the least thing wrong. Yet her mother lay all that time
in the wood--"

"Silence!"

This word was shot at her by Miss Demarest, who had risen to her full
height and now fairly flamed upon them all in her passionate
indignation. "I will not listen to such words till I have finished
all I have to say and put these liars to the blush. My mother was
with me, and this woman witnessed our good-night embrace, and then
showed my mother to her own room. I watched them going. They went
down the hall to the left and around a certain corner. I stood
looking after them till they turned this corner, then I closed my
door and began to take off my hat. But I wasn't quite satisfied with
the good-night which had passed between my poor mother and myself,
and presently I opened my door and ran down the hall and around the
corner on a chance of finding her room. I don't remember very well
how that hall looked. I passed several doors seemingly shut for the
night, and should have turned back, confused, if at that moment I had
not spied the landlady's figure, your figure, madam, coming out of
one room on your way to another. You were carrying a pitcher, and I
made haste and ran after you and reached the door just before you
turned to shut it. Can you deny that, or that you stepped aside
while I ran in and gave my mother another hug? If you can and do,
then you are a dangerous and lying woman, or I-- But I won't admit
that I'm not all right. It is you, base and untruthful woman, who
for some end I cannot fathom persist in denying facts on which my
honor, if not my life, depends. Why, gentlemen, you, one of you at
least, have heard me describe the very room in which I saw my mother.
It is imprinted on my mind. I didn't know at the time that I took
especial notice of it, but hardly a detail escaped me. The paper on
the wall--"

"We have been looking through the rooms," interpolated the coroner.
"We do not find any papered with the muddy pink you talk about."

She stared, drew back from them all, and finally sank into a chair.
"You do not find-- But you have not been shown them all."

"I think so."

"You have not. There is such a room. I could not have dreamed it."

Silence met this suggestion.

Throwing up her hands like one who realizes for the first time that
the battle is for life, she let an expression of her despair and
desolation rush in frenzy from her lips:

"It's a conspiracy. The whole thing is a conspiracy. If my mother
had had money on her or had worn valuable jewelry, I should believe
her to have been a victim of this lying man and woman. As it is, I
don't trust them. They say that my poor mother was found lying ready
dressed and quite dead in the wood. That may be true, for I saw men
bringing her in. But if so, what warrant have we that she was not
lured there, slaughtered, and made to seem the victim of accident by
this unscrupulous man and woman? Such things have been done; but for
a daughter to fabricate such a plot as they impute to me is past
belief, out of Nature and impossible. With all their wiles, they
cannot prove it. I dare them to do so; I dare any one to do so."

Then she begged to be allowed to search the house for the room she so
well remembered. "When I show you that," she cried, with ringing
assurance, "you will believe the rest of my story."

"Shall I take the young lady up myself?" asked Mr. Quimby. "Or will
it be enough if my wife accompanies her?"

"We will all accompany her," said the coroner.

"Very good," came in hearty acquiescence.

"It's the only way to quiet her," he whispered in Mr. Hammersmith's
ear.

The latter turned on him suddenly.

"None of your insinuations," he cried. "She's as far from insane as
I am myself. We shall find the room."

"You, too," fell softly from the other's lips as he stepped "back
into the coroner's wake. Mr. Hammersmith gave his arm to Miss
Demarest, and the landlady brought up the rear.

"Upstairs," ordered the trembling girl. "We will go first to the
room I occupied."

As they reached the door, she motioned them all back, and started
away from them down the hall. Quickly they followed. "It was around
a corner," she muttered broodingly, halting at the first turning.
"That is all I remember. But we'll visit every room."

"We have already," objected the coroner, but meeting Mr.
Hammersmith's warning look, he desisted from further interference.

"I remember its appearance perfectly. I remember it as if it were my
own," she persisted, as door after door was thrown back and as
quickly shut again at a shake of her head. "Isn't there another
hall? Might I not have turned some other corner?"

"Yes, there is another hall," acquiesced the landlord, leading the
way into the passage communicating with the extension.

"Oh!" she murmured, as she noted the increased interest in both the
coroner and his companion; "we shall find it here."

"Do you recognize the hall?" asked the coroner as they stepped
through a narrow opening into the old part.

"No, but I shall recognize the room."

"Wait!" It was Hammersmith who called her back as she was starting
forward. "I should like you to repeat just how much furniture this
room contained and where it stood."

She stopped, startled, and then said:

"It was awfully bare; a bed was on the left--"

"On the left?"

"She said the left," quoth the landlord, "though I don't see that it
matters; it's all fancy with her."

"Go on," kindly urged Hammersmith.

"There was a window. I saw the dismal panes and my mother standing
between them and me. I can't describe the little things."

"Possibly because there were none to describe," whispered Hammersmith
in his superior's ear.

Meanwhile the landlord and his wife awaited their advance with
studied patience. As Miss Demarest joined him, he handed her a bunch
of keys, with the remark:

"None of these rooms are occupied to-day, so you can open them
without hesitation."

She stared at him and ran quickly forward. Mr. Hammersmith followed
speedily after. Suddenly both paused. She had lost the thread of
her intention before opening a single door.

"I thought I could go straight to it," she declared. "I shall have
to open all the doors, as we did in the other hall."

"Let me help you," proffered Mr. Hammersmith. She accepted his aid,
and the search recommenced with the same results as before. Hope
sank to disappointment as each door was passed. The vigor of her
step was gone, and as she paused heartsick before the last and only
remaining door, it was with an ashy face she watched Mr. Hammersmith
stoop to insert the key.

He, on his part, as the door fell back, watched her for some token of
awakened interest. But he watched in vain. The smallness of the
room, its bareness, its one window, the absence of all furniture save
the solitary cot drawn up on the right (not on the left, as she had
said), seemed to make little or no impression on her.

"The last! the last! and I have not found it. Oh, sir," she moaned,
catching at Mr. Hammersmith's arm, "am I then mad? Was it a dream?
Or is this a dream? I feel that I no longer know." Then, as the
landlady officiously stepped up, she clung with increased frenzy to
Mr. Hammersmith, crying, with positive wildness, "This is the dream!
The room I remember is a real one and my story is real. Prove it, or
my reason will leave me. I feel it going--going--"

"Hush!" It was Hammersmith who sought thus to calm her. "Your story
is real and I will prove it so. Meanwhile trust your reason. It
will not fail you."

He had observed the corners of the landlord's hitherto restrained
lips settle into a slightly sarcastic curl as the door of this room
closed for the second time.