Chapter 3

"Oh!" he ejaculated, in a tone of great displeasure. "This is the woman
who saw----"

"Miss Butterworth, father," the anxious voice of his son broke in.
"Don't try to talk; such a sight is enough to unnerve any man."

"Yes, yes," blustered the old gentleman, evidently taking some hint from
the other's tone or manner. "But where are the girls? They will be dead
with terror, if we don't relieve their minds. They got the idea it was
their brother Howard who was hurt; and so did I, but it's only some
wandering waif--some----"

It seemed as if he was not to be allowed to finish any of his sentences,
for Franklin interrupted him at this point to ask him what he was going
to do with the girls. Certainly he could not bring them in here.

"No," answered the father, but in the dreamy, inconsequential way of
one whose thoughts were elsewhere. "I suppose I shall have to take them
to some hotel."

Ah, an idea! I flushed as I realized the opportunity which had come to
me and had to wait a moment not to speak with too much eagerness.

"Let me play the part of a neighbor," I prayed, "and accommodate the
young ladies for the night. My house is near and quiet."

"But the trouble it will involve," protested Mr. Franklin.

"Is just what I need to allay my excitement," I responded. "I shall be
glad to offer them rooms for the night. If they are equally glad to
accept them----"

"They must be!" the old gentleman declared. "I can't go running round
with them hunting up rooms to-night. Miss Butterworth is very good; go
find the girls, Franklin; let me have them off my mind, at least."

The young man bowed. I bowed, and was slipping at last from my place by
the stairs when, for the third time, I felt my dress twitched.

"Are you going to keep to that story?" a voice whispered in my ear.
"About the young man and woman coming in the night, you know."

"Keep to it!" I whispered back, recognizing the scrub-woman, who had
sidled up to me from some unknown quarter in the semi-darkness. "Why,
it's true. Why shouldn't I keep to it."

A chuckle, difficult to describe but full of meaning, shook the arm of
the woman as she pressed close to my side.

"Oh, you are a good one," she said. "I didn't know they made 'em so
good!" And with another chuckle full of satisfaction and an odd sort of
admiration I had certainly not earned, she slid away again into the
darkness.

Certainly there was something in this woman's attitude towards this
affair which merited attention.

V.

"THIS IS NO ONE I KNOW."

I welcomed the Misses Van Burnam with just enough good-will to show that
I had not been influenced by any unworthy motives in asking them to my
house.

I gave them my guest-chamber, but I invited them to sit in my front room
as long as there was anything interesting going on in the street. I knew
they would like to look out, and as this chamber boasts of a bay with
two windows, we could all be accommodated. From where I sat I could now
and then hear what they said, and I considered this but just, for if the
young woman who had suffered so untimely an end was in any way connected
with them, it was certainly best that the fact should not lie concealed;
and one of them, that is Isabella, is such a chatterbox.

Mr. Van Burnam and his son had returned next door, and so far as we
could observe from our vantage-point, preparations were being made for
the body's removal. As the crowd below, driven away by the policemen one
minute, only to collect again in another, swayed and grumbled in a
continual expectation that was as continually disappointed, I heard
Caroline's voice rise in two or three short sentences.

"They can't find Howard, or he would have been here before now. Did you
see her that time when we were coming out of Clark's? Fanny Preston did,
and said she was pretty."

"No, I didn't get a glimpse----" A shout from the street below.

"I can't believe it," were the next words I heard, "but Franklin is
awfully afraid----"

"Hush! or the ogress----" I am sure I heard her say ogress; but what
followed was drowned in another loud murmur, and I caught nothing
further till these sentences were uttered by the trembling and
over-excited Caroline: "If it is she, pa will never be the same man
again. To have her die in our house! O, there's Howard now!"

The interruption came quick and sharp, and it was followed by a double
cry and an anxious rustle, as the two girls sprang to their feet in
their anxiety to attract their brother's attention or possibly to convey
him some warning.

But I did not give much heed to them. My eyes were on the carriage in
which Howard had arrived, and which, owing to the ambulance in front,
had stopped on the other side of the way. I was anxious to see him
descend that I might judge if his figure recalled that of the man I had
seen cross the pavement the night before. But he did not descend. Just
as his hand was on the carriage door, a half dozen men appeared on the
adjoining stoop carrying a burden which they hastened to deposit in the
ambulance. He sank back when he saw it, and when his face became visible
again, it was so white it seemed to be the only face in the street,
though fifty people stood about staring at the house, at the ambulance,
and at him.

Franklin Van Burnam had evidently come to the door with the rest; for
Howard no sooner showed his face the second time than we saw the former
dash down the steps and try to part the crowd in a vain attempt to reach
his brother's side. Mr. Gryce was more successful. He had no difficulty
in winning his way across the street, and presently I perceived him
standing near the carriage exchanging a few words with its occupant. A
moment later he drew back, and addressing the driver, jumped into the
carriage with Howard, and was speedily driven off. The ambulance
followed and some of the crowd, and as soon as a hack could be obtained,
Mr. Van Burnam and his son took the same road, leaving us three women in
a state of suspense, which as far as one of us was concerned, ended in a
nervous attack that was not unlike heart failure. I allude, of course,
to Caroline, and it took Isabella and myself a good half hour to bring
her back to a normal condition, and when this was done, Isabella thought
it incumbent upon her to go off into hysterics, which, being but a weak
simulation of the other's state, I met with severity and cured with a
frown. When both were in trim again I allowed myself one remark.

"One would think," said I, "that you knew the young woman who has fallen
victim to her folly next door."

At which Isabella violently shook her head and Caroline observed:

"It is the excitement which has been too much for me. I am never strong,
and this is such a dreadful home-welcoming. When will father and
Franklin come back? It was very unkind of them to go off without one
word of encouragement."

"They probably did not consider the fate of this unknown woman a matter
of any importance to you."

The Van Burnam girls were unlike in appearance and character, but they
showed an equal embarrassment at this, casting down their eyes and
behaving so strangely that I was driven to wonder, without any show of
hysterics I am happy to say, what would be the upshot of this matter,
and how far I would become involved in it before the truth came to
light.

At dinner they displayed what I should call their best society manner.
Seeing this, I assumed my society manner also. It is formed on a
different pattern from theirs, but is fully as impressive, I judge.

A most formal meal was the result. My best china was in use, but I had
added nothing to my usual course of viands. Indeed, I had abstracted
something. An _entrée_, upon which my cook prides herself, was omitted.
Was I going to allow these proud young misses to think I had exerted
myself to please them? No; rather would I have them consider me
niggardly and an enemy to good living; so the _entrée_ was, as the
French say, suppressed.

In the evening their father came in. He was looking very dejected, and
half his bluster was gone. He held a telegram crushed in his hand, and
he talked very rapidly. But he confided none of his secrets to me, and I
was obliged to say good-night to these young ladies without knowing much
more about the matter engrossing us than when I left their house in the
afternoon.

But others were not as ignorant as myself. A dramatic and highly
exciting scene had taken place that evening at the undertaker's to which
the unknown's body had been removed, and as I have more than once heard
it minutely described, I will endeavor to transcribe it here with all
the impartiality of an outsider.

When Mr. Gryce entered the carriage in which Howard sat, he noted first,
that the young man was frightened; and secondly, that he made no effort
to hide it. He had heard almost nothing from the detective. He knew that
there had been a hue and cry for him ever since noon, and that he was
wanted to identify a young woman who had been found dead in his father's
house, but beyond these facts he had been told little, and yet he seemed
to have no curiosity nor did he venture to express any surprise. He
merely accepted the situation and was troubled by it, showing no
inclination to talk till very near the end of his destination, when he
suddenly pulled himself together and ventured this question:

"How did she--the young woman as you call her--kill herself?"

The detective, who in his long career among criminals and suspected
persons, had seen many men and encountered many conditions, roused at
this query with much of his old spirit. Turning from the man rather than
toward him, he allowed himself a slight shrug of the shoulders as he
calmly replied:

"She was found under a heavy piece of furniture; the cabinet with the
vases on it, which you must remember stood at the left of the
mantel-piece. It had crushed her head and breast. Quite a remarkable
means of death, don't you think? There has been but one occurrence like
it in my long experience."

"I don't believe what you tell me," was the young man's astonishing
reply. "You are trying to frighten me or to make game of me. No lady
would make use of any such means of death as that."

"I did not say she was a lady," returned Mr. Gryce, scoring one in his
mind against his unwary companion.

A quiver passed down the young man's side where he came in contact with
the detective.

"No," he muttered; "but I gathered from what you said, she was no common
person; or why," he flashed out in sudden heat, "do you require me to go
with you to see her? Have I the name of associating with any persons of
the sex who are not ladies?"

"Pardon me," said Mr. Gryce, in grim delight at the prospect he saw
slowly unfolding before him of one of those complicated affairs in which
minds like his unconsciously revel; "I meant no insinuations. We have
requested you, as we have requested your father and brother, to
accompany us to the undertaker's, because the identification of the
corpse is a most important point, and every formality likely to insure
it must be observed."

"And did not they--my father and brother, I mean--recognize her?"

"It would be difficult for any one to recognize her who was not well
acquainted with her."

A horrified look crossed the features of Howard Van Burnam, which, if a
part of his acting, showed him to have genius for his _rôle_. His head
sank back on the cushions of the carriage, and for a moment he closed
his eyes. When he opened them again, the carriage had stopped, and Mr.
Gryce, who had not noticed his emotion, of course, was looking out of
the window with his hand on the handle of the door.

"Are we there already?" asked the young man, with a shudder. "I wish
you had not considered it necessary for me to see her. I shall detect
nothing familiar in her, I know."

Mr. Gryce bowed, repeated that it was a mere formality, and followed the
young gentleman into the building and afterwards into the room where the
dead body lay. A couple of doctors and one or two officials stood about,
in whose faces the young man sought for something like encouragement
before casting his eyes in the direction indicated by the detective. But
there was little in any of these faces to calm him, and turning shortly
away, he walked manfully across the room and took his stand by the
detective.

"I am positive," he began, "that it is not my wife----" At this moment
the cloth that covered the body was removed, and he gave a great start
of relief. "I said so," he remarked, coldly. "This is no one I know."

His sigh was echoed in double chorus from the doorway. Glancing that way
he encountered the faces of his father and elder brother, and moved
towards them with a relieved air that made quite another man of him in
appearance.

"I have had my say," he remarked. "Shall I wait outside till you have
had yours?"

"We have already said all that we had to," Franklin returned. "We
declared that we did not recognize this person."

"Of course, of course," assented the other. "I don't see why they should
have expected us to know her. Some common suicide who thought the house
empty--But how did she get in?"

"Don't you know?" said Mr. Gryce. "Can it be that I forgot to tell you?
Why, she was let in at night by a young man of medium height"--his eye
ran up and down the graceful figure of the young _élégant_ before him as
he spoke--"who left her inside and then went away. A young man who had a
key----"

"A _key_? Franklin, I----"

Was it a look from Franklin which made him stop? It is possible, for he
turned on his heel as he reached this point, and tossing his head with
quite a gay air, exclaimed: "But it is of no consequence! The girl is a
stranger, and we have satisfied, I believe, all the requirements of the
law in saying so, and may now drop the matter. Are you going to the
club, Franklin?"

"Yes, but----" Here the elder brother drew nearer and whispered
something into the other's ear, who at that whisper turned again towards
the place where the dead woman lay. Seeing this movement, his anxious
father wiped the moisture from his forehead. Silas Van Burnam had been
silent up to this moment and seemed inclined to continue so, but he
watched his younger son with painful intentness.

"Nonsense!" broke from Howard's lips as his brother ceased his
communication; but he took a step nearer the body, notwithstanding, and
then another and another till he was at its side again.

The hands had not been injured, as we have said, and upon these his eyes
now fell.

"They are like hers! O God! they are like hers!" he muttered, growing
gloomy at once. "But where are the rings? There are no rings to be seen
on these fingers, and she wore five, including her wedding-ring."

"Is it of your wife you are speaking?" inquired Mr. Gryce, who had edged
up close to his side.

The young man was caught unawares.

He flushed deeply, but answered up boldly and with great appearance of
candor:

"Yes; my wife left Haddam yesterday to come to New York, and I have not
seen her since. Naturally I have felt some doubts lest this unhappy
victim should be she. But I do not recognize her clothing; I do not
recognize her form; only the hands look familiar."

"And the hair?"

"Is of the same color as hers, but it's a very ordinary color. I do not
dare to say from anything I see that this is my wife."

"We will call you again after the doctor has finished his autopsy," said
Mr. Gryce. "Perhaps you will hear from Mrs. Van Burnam before then."

But this intimation did not seem to bring comfort with it. Mr. Van
Burnam walked away, white and sick, for which display of emotion there
was certainly some cause, and rejoining his father tried to carry off
the moment with the _aplomb_ of a man of the world.

But that father's eye was fixed too steadily upon him; he faltered as he
sat down, and finally spoke up, with feverish energy:

"If it is she, so help me, God, her death is a mystery to me! We have
quarrelled more than once lately, and I have sometimes lost my patience
with her, but she had no reason to wish for death, and I am ready to
swear in defiance of those hands, which are certainly like hers, and the
nameless something which Franklin calls a likeness, that it is a
stranger who lies there, and that her death in our house is a
coincidence."

"Well, well, we will wait," was the detective's soothing reply. "Sit
down in the room opposite there, and give me your orders for supper, and
I will see that a good meal is served you."

The three gentlemen, seeing no way of refusing, followed the discreet
official who preceded them, and the door of the doctor's room closed
upon him and the inquiries he was about to make.

VI.

NEW FACTS.

Mr. Van Burnam and his sons had gone through the formality of a supper
and were conversing in the haphazard way natural to men filled with a
subject they dare not discuss, when the door opened and Mr. Gryce came
in.

Advancing very calmly, he addressed himself to the father:

"I am sorry," said he, "to be obliged to inform you that this affair is
much more serious than we anticipated. This young woman was dead before
the shelves laden with _bric-à-brac_ fell upon her. It is a case of
murder; obviously so, or I should not presume to forestall the Coroner's
jury in their verdict."

Murder! it is a word to shake the stoutest heart!

The older gentleman reeled as he half rose, and Franklin, his son,
betrayed in his own way an almost equal amount of emotion. But Howard,
shrugging his shoulders as if relieved of an immense weight, looked
about with a cheerful air, and briskly cried:

"Then it is not the body of my wife you have there. No one would murder
Louise. I shall go away and prove the truth of my words by hunting her
up at once."

The detective opened the door, beckoned in the doctor, who whispered
two or three words into Howard's ear.

They failed to awake the emotion he evidently expected. Howard looked
surprised, but answered without any change of voice:

"Yes, Louise had such a scar; and if it is true that this woman is
similarly marked, then it is a mere coincidence. Nothing will convince
me that my wife has been the victim of murder."

"Had you not better take a look at the scar just mentioned?"

"No. I am so sure of what I say that I will not even consider the
possibility of my being mistaken. I have examined the clothing on this
body you have shown me, and not one article of it came from my wife's
wardrobe; nor would my wife go, as you have informed me this woman did,
into a dark house at night with any other man than her husband."

"And so you absolutely refuse to acknowledge her."

"Most certainly."

The detective paused, glanced at the troubled faces of the other two
gentlemen, faces that had not perceptibly altered during these
declarations, and suggestively remarked:

"You have not asked by what means she was killed."

"And I don't care," shouted Howard.

"It was by very peculiar means, also new in my experience."

"It does not interest me," the other retorted.

Mr. Gryce turned to his father and brother.

"Does it interest _you_?" he asked.

The old gentleman, ordinarily so testy and so peremptory, silently
nodded his head, while Franklin cried:

"Speak up quick. You detectives hesitate so over the disagreeables. Was
she throttled or stabbed with a knife?"

"I have said the means were peculiar. She was stabbed, but not--with a
knife."

I know Mr. Gryce well enough now to be sure that he did not glance
towards Howard while saying this, and yet at the same time that he did
not miss the quiver of a muscle on his part or the motion of an eyelash.
But Howard's assumed _sang froid_ remained undisturbed and his
countenance imperturbable.

"The wound was so small," the detective went on, "that it is a miracle
it did not escape notice. It was made by the thrust of some very slender
instrument through----"

"The heart?" put in Franklin.

"Of course, of course," assented the detective; "what other spot is
vulnerable enough to cause death?"

"Is there any reason why we should not go?" demanded Howard, ignoring
the extreme interest manifested by the other two, with a determination
that showed great doggedness of character.

The detective ignored _him_.

"A quick stroke, a sure stroke, a fatal stroke. The girl never breathed
after."

"But what of those things under which she lay crushed?"

"Ah, in them lies the mystery! Her assailant must have been as subtle as
he was sure."

And still Howard showed no interest.

"I wish to telegraph to Haddam," he declared, as no one answered the
last remark. Haddam was the place where he and his wife had been
spending the summer.

"We have already telegraphed there," observed Mr. Gryce. "Your wife has
not yet returned."

"There are other places," defiantly insisted the other. "I can find her
if you give me the opportunity."

Mr. Gryce bowed.

"I am to give orders, then, for this body to be removed to the Morgue."

It was an unexpected suggestion, and for an instant Howard showed that
he had feelings with the best. But he quickly recovered himself, and
avoiding the anxious glances of his father and brother, answered with
offensive lightness:

"I have nothing to do with that. You must do as you think proper."

And Mr. Gryce felt that he had received a check, and did not know
whether to admire the young man for his nerve or to execrate him for his
brutality. That the woman whom he had thus carelessly dismissed to the
ignominy of the public gaze was his wife, the detective did not doubt.

VII.

MR. GRYCE DISCOVERS MISS AMELIA.

To return to my own observations. I was almost as ignorant of what I
wanted to know at ten o'clock on that memorable night as I was at five,
but I was determined not to remain so. When the two Misses Van Burnam
had retired to their room, I slipped away to the neighboring house and
boldly rang the bell. I had observed Mr. Gryce enter it a few minutes
before, and I was resolved to have some talk with him.

The hall-lamp was lit, and we could discern each other's faces as he
opened the door. Mine may have been a study, but I am sure his was. He
had not expected to be confronted by an elderly lady at that hour of
night.

"Well!" he dryly ejaculated, "I am sensible of the honor, Miss
Butterworth." But he did not ask me in.

"I expected no less," said I. "I saw you come in, and I followed as soon
after as I could. I have something to say to you."

He admitted me then and carefully closed the door. Feeling free to be
myself, I threw off the veil I had tied under my chin and confronted him
with what I call the true spirit.

"Mr. Gryce," I began, "let us make an exchange of civilities. Tell me
what you have done with Howard Van Burnam, and I will tell you what I
have observed in the course of this afternoon's investigation."

This aged detective is used to women, I have no doubt, but he is not
used to _me_. I saw it by the way he turned over and over the spectacles
he held in his hand. I made an effort to help him out.

"I have noted something to-day which I think has escaped _you_. It is so
slight a clue that most women would not speak of it. But being
interested in the case, I will mention it, if in return you will
acquaint me with what will appear in the papers to-morrow."

He seemed to like it. He peered through his glasses and at them with the
smile of a discoverer. "I am your very humble servant," he declared; and
I felt as if my father's daughter had received her first recognition.

But he did not overwhelm me with confidences. O, no, he is very sly,
this old and well-seasoned detective; and while appearing to be very
communicative, really parted with but little information. He said
enough, however, for me to gather that matters looked grim for Howard,
and if this was so, it must have become apparent that the death they
were investigating was neither an accident nor a suicide.

I hinted as much, and he, for his own ends no doubt, admitted at last
that a wound had been found on the young woman which could not have been
inflicted by herself; at which I felt such increased interest in this
remarkable murder that I must have made some foolish display of it, for
the wary old gentleman chuckled and ogled his spectacles quite lovingly
before shutting them up and putting them into his pocket.

"And now what have you to tell me?" he inquired, sliding softly between
me and the parlor door.

"Nothing but this. Question that queer-acting house-cleaner closely. She
has something to tell which it is your business to know."

I think he was disappointed. He looked as if he regretted the spectacles
he had pocketed, and when he spoke there was an edge to his tone I had
not noticed in it before.

"Do you know what that something is?" he asked.

"No, or I should tell you myself."

"And what makes you think she is hiding anything from us?"

"Her manner. Did you not notice her manner?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"It conveyed much to me," I insisted. "If I were a detective I would
have the secret out of that woman or die in the attempt."

He laughed; this sly, old, almost decrepit man laughed outright. Then he
looked severely at his old friend on the newel-post, and drawing himself
up with some show of dignity, made this remark:

"It is my very good fortune to have made your acquaintance, Miss
Butterworth. You and I ought to be able to work out this case in a way
that will be satisfactory to all parties."

He meant it for sarcasm, but I took it quite seriously, that is to all
appearance. I am as sly as he, and though not quite as old--now _I_ am
sarcastic--have some of his wits, if but little of his experience.

"Then let us to work," said I. "You have your theories about this
murder, and I have mine; let us see how they compare."

If the image he had under his eye had not been made of bronze, I am sure
it would have become petrified by the look he now gave it. What to me
seemed but the natural proposition of an energetic woman with a special
genius for his particular calling, evidently struck him as audacity of
the grossest kind. But he confined his display of astonishment to the
figure he was eying, and returned me nothing but this most gentlemanly
retort:

"I am sure I am obliged to you, madam, and possibly I may be willing to
consider your very thoughtful proposition later, but now I am busy, very
busy, and if you will await my presence in your house for a half
hour----"

"Why not let me wait here," I interposed. "The atmosphere of the place
may sharpen my faculties. I already feel that another sharp look into
that parlor would lead to the forming of some valuable theory."

"You--" Well, he did not say what I was, or rather, what the image he
was apostrophizing, was. But he must have meant to utter a compliment of
no common order.

The prim courtesy I made in acknowledgment of his good intention
satisfied him that I had understood him fully; and changing his whole
manner to one more in accordance with business, he observed after a
moment's reflection:

"You came to a conclusion this afternoon, Miss Butterworth, for which I
should like some explanation. In investigating the hat which had been
drawn from under the murdered girl's remains, you made the remark that
it had been worn but once. I had already come to the same conclusion,
but by other means, doubtless.