BOOK II HIDDEN (continued 2)

“You say that you heard him moving down the hall. You did not see him at your uncle’s door?”

“No, I did not.”

“But you are confident he was there, previous to your looking out?”

“I am very sure that he was; my ear seldom deceives me.”

“Mr. Bartholomew, will you think carefully before you answer the following question. Was there any circumstance connected with this matter which will enable you to locate the hour at which you heard your cousin pass down the hall?”

He hesitated; he did not want to answer. Why? I would have given all that I possessed to know; but he only said:

“I did not look at my watch; I did not need to. The clock was striking three.”

“Three! The jury will note the hour.”

Why did he say that?—the jury will note the hour? My action was harmless. Everything I did that night was harmless. What did he mean then by the hour? The mystery of it troubled me—a mystery he was careful to leave for the present just where it was.

Returning to his direct investigation, the coroner led the witness back to the time preceding his entrance into the hall. “You were listening from your room; that room was dark, you were no longer watching the clock which had not yet struck; yet perhaps you can give us some idea of how long your cousin lingered at your uncle’s door before starting down the hall.”

“No, I should not like to do that.”

“Five minutes?”

“I cannot say.”

“Long enough to have entered that room and come out again?”

“You ask too much. I am not ready to swear to that.”

“Very good; I will not press you!” But the suggestion had been made. And for a purpose—a purpose linked with the mystery of which I have just spoken. Glancing at Mr. Jackson, I saw him writing in his little book. He had noted this too. I was not alone in my apprehension which, like a giant shadow thrown from some unknown quarter, was reaching slowly over to envelop me. When I was ready to listen again, it was to hear:

“What did you do then?”

“I went to bed.”

“Did you see or hear anything more of your cousin that night?”

“No, not till the early morning when we were all roused by the news which Wealthy brought to every door, that Uncle was very much worse and that the doctor should be sent for.”

“Tell us where it was you met him then.”

“In the hall near Uncle’s door—the one marked 2 on the chart.”

“How did he look? Was there anything peculiar in his appearance or manner?”

“He was fully dressed.”

“And you?”

“I had had no time to do more than wrap a dressing-gown about me.”

“At what time was this? You remember the hour no doubt?”

“Half past four in the morning; any one can tell you that.”

“And he was fully dressed. In morning clothes or evening?”

“In the ones he wore to dinner the night before.”

It was true; I had not gone to bed that night. There was too much on my mind. But to them it would look as if I had sat up ready for the expected alarm.

“Was he in these same clothes when you finally entered your uncle’s room?”

“Certainly; there was no time then for changing.”

These questions might have been addressed to me instead of to him. They would have been answered with as much truth; but the suggestiveness would have been lacking and in this I recognized my second enemy. I now knew that the Coroner was against me.

A few persons there may have recognized this fact also. But they were all too much in sympathy with Edgar to resent it. I made no show of doing so nor did I glance again at Orpha to see the effect on her of these attacks leveled at me with so much subtlety. I felt, in the humiliation of the moment, that unless I stood cleared of every suspicion, I could never look her again in the face.

Meanwhile the inquiry had reached the event for which all were waiting—the destruction of the one will and the acknowledgment by the dying man that the envelope which held the other was empty.

“Were you near enough to see the red mark on the one he had ordered burned?”

“Yes; I took note of it.”

“Had you seen it before?”

“Yes; when, in the interview of which I have spoken, my uncle showed me the two envelopes and informed me of their several contents.”

“Did he tell you or did you learn in any way which will was in the one marked with red?”

“No. I did not ask him and he did not say.”

“So when you saw it burning you did not know with certainty whether it was the will making you or your cousin his chief heir?”

“I did not.”

He said it firmly, but he said it with effort. Again, why?

The time to consider this was not now, for at this reply, expected though it was, a universal sigh swept through the house, carrying my thoughts with it. Emotion must have its outlet. The echo in my own breast was a silent one, springing from sources beyond the ken of the simple onlooker. We were approaching a critical part of the inquiry. The whereabouts of the missing document must soon come up. Should I be obliged to listen to further insinuations such as had just been made? Was it his plan to show that I was party to a fraud and knew where the missing will lay secreted,—where it would always lie secreted because it was in his favor and not in mine? It was possible; anything was possible. If I were really wise I would prepare myself for the unexpected; for the unexpected was what I probably should be called upon to face.

Yet it was not so, or I did not think it so, in the beginning.

Asked to describe his uncle’s last moments he did so shortly, simply, feelingly.

Then came the question for which I waited.

“Your uncle died, then, without a sign as to where the remaining will was to be found?”

“He did not have time. Death came instantly, leaving the words unsaid. It was a great misfortune.”

With a gesture of reproof, for he would not have it seem that he liked these comments, the Coroner pressed eagerly on:

“What of his looks? Did his features betray any emotion when he found that he could no longer speak?”

Edgar hesitated. It was the first time we had seen him do so and my heart beat in anticipation of a lie.

But again I did him an injustice. He did not want to answer—that we could all see—but when he did, he spoke the truth.

“He looked frightened, or so I interpreted his expression; and his head moved a little. Then all was over.”

In the silence which followed, a stifled sob was heard. We all knew from whom it came and every eye turned to the patient little figure in black who up till now had kept such strong control over her feelings.

“If Miss Bartholomew would like to retire into the adjoining room she is at liberty to do so,” came from the Coroner’s seat.

But she shook her head, murmuring quietly:

“Thank you, I will stay.”

I blessed her in my heart. Still neutral. Still resolute to hear and know all.

The inquiry went on.

“Mr. Bartholomew, did you search for that will?”

“Thoroughly. In a haphazard way at first, expecting to find it in some of the many drawers in his room. But when I did not, I went more carefully to work, I and my two faithful servants, who having been in personal attendance upon him all through his illness, knew his habits and knew the room. But even then we found nothing in any way suggestive of the document we were looking for.”

“And since?”

“The room has been in the hands of the police. I have not heard that they have been any more successful.”

There were more questions and more answers but I paid little attention to them. I was thinking of what had passed between the Inspector and myself at the time he visited me in my room. I have said little about it because a man is not proud of such an experience; but in the quiet way in which this especial official worked, he had made himself very sure before he left me that this document was neither on my person nor within the four walls of the room itself. This had been a part of the search. I tingled yet whenever I recalled the humiliation of that hour. I tingled at this moment; but rebuked myself as the mystery of the whole proceeding got a stronger hold upon my mind. Not with me, not with him, but somewhere! When would they reach the point where perhaps the solution lay? Five hours had elapsed between the time I left uncle and the rousing of the house at Wealthy’s hurried call. What had happened during those hours? Who could tell the tale—the whole tale, since manifestly that had never been fully related. Clarke? Wealthy? I knew what they had told the police, what they had confided to each other concerning their experience in the sick-room; but under oath, and with the shadow of crime falling across the lesser mystery what might not come to light under the probe of this prejudiced but undoubtedly honest Coroner?

XXVII

My impatience grew with every passing moment, but fortunately it was not to be tried much longer, for I soon had the satisfaction of seeing Edgar leave the witness chair and Clarke, as we called him, take his seat there.

This old and tried servant of a man exacting as he was friendly and generous as he was just, had always inspired me with admiration, far as I was from being in his good books. Had he liked me I would have felt myself strong in what was now a doubtful position. But devoted as he was to Edgar, I could not hope for any help from him save of the most grudging kind. I therefore sat unmoved and unexpectant while he took his oath and answered the few opening questions. They pertained mostly to the signing of the first will to which he had added his signature as witness. As nothing new was elicited this matter was soon dropped.

Other points of interest shared the same fate. He could substantiate the testimony of others, but he had nothing of his own to impart. Would it be the same when we got to his final attendance on his master—the last words uttered between them—the final good-night?

The Coroner himself seemed to be awake to the full importance of what this witness might have to disclose, for he scrutinized him earnestly before saying:

“We will now hear, as nearly as you can recall, what passed between you and your sick master on the night which proved to be his last? Begin at the beginning—that is, when you were sent to summon one or other of his two nephews to Mr. Bartholomew’s room.”

“Pardon, sir, but that was not the beginning. The beginning was when Mr. Bartholomew, who to our astonishment had eaten his supper in his chair by the fireside, drew a small key from the pocket in his dressing-gown and, handing it to me, bade me unlock the drawer let into the back of his bedstead and bring him the two big envelopes I should find there.”

“You are right, that is the beginning. Go on with your story.”

“I had never been asked to unlock this drawer before; he had always managed to do it himself; but I had no difficulty in doing it or in bringing him the papers he had asked for. I just lifted out the whole batch, and laying them down in his lap, asked him to pick out the ones he wanted.”

“Did he do it?”

“Yes, immediately.”

“Before you moved away?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you caught a glimpse of the papers he selected?”

“I did, sir. I could not help it. I had to wait, for he wished me to relieve him of the ones he didn’t want.”

“And you did this?”

“Yes; I took them from his hand and laid them on the table to which he pointed.”

“Now for the ones he kept. Describe them.”

“Two large envelopes, sir, larger than the usual legal size, brown in color, I should say, and thick with the papers that were in them.”

“Had you ever seen any envelopes like these before?”

“Yes, on Mr. Bartholomew’s desk the day I was called in to witness his signature.”

“Very good. There were two of them, you say?”

“Yes, sir, two.”

“Were they alike?”

“Exactly, I should say.”

“Any mark on either one?”

“Not that I observed, sir. But I only saw the face of one of them and that was absolutely blank.”

“No red marks on either.”

“Not that I saw, sir.”

“Very good. Proceed, Mr. Clarke. What did Mr. Bartholomew say, after you had laid the other papers aside?”

“He bade me look for Mr. Edgar; said he was in a hurry and wanted to see him at once.”

“Was that all?”

“Yes, sir, he was not a man of many words. Besides, I left the room immediately and did not enter it again till Mr. Edgar left him.”

“Where were you when he did this?”

“At the end of the hall talking to Wealthy. There is a little cozy corner there where she sits and where I sometimes waited when I was expecting Mr. Bartholomew’s ring.”

“Did you see Mr. Edgar, as you call him, when he came out?”

“Yes, sir; crossing over to his room.”

“And what did you do after that?”

“Went immediately to Mr. Bartholomew to see if he was wishing to go to bed. But he was not. On the contrary, he had another errand for me. He wanted to see his other nephew. So I went below searching for him.”

“Was Mr. Bartholomew still sitting by the fire when you went in?”

“He was.”

“With the two big envelopes in his hands?”

“Not that I noted, sir; but he had pockets in his gown large enough to hold them and they might have been in one of these.”

“Never mind the might have beens; just the plain answer, Mr. Clarke.”

“Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir. Feeling afraid that he would get very tired sitting up so long, I hurried downstairs, found Mr. Quenton, as we call him, in the library and brought him straight up. Then I went back to Wealthy.”

“Is there a clock in the cozy corner?”

“There is, sir.”

“Did you look at it as you came and went?”

“I did this time.”

“Why this time?”

“First, because I was anxious for Mr. Bartholomew not to tire himself too much and—and—”

“Go on; we want the whole truth, Mr. Clarke.”

“I was curious to see whether Mr. Bartholomew would keep Mr. Quenton any longer than he did Mr. Edgar.”

“And did he?”

“A little, sir.”

“Did you and the woman Wealthy exchange remarks upon this?”

“We—we did, sir.”

At this admission, I took a quick look at Mr. Jackson and was relieved to see him make another entry in his little book. He had detected, here, as well as I, an opening for future investigation. I heard him, as it were in advance, putting this suggestive query to the present witness:

“What had you and Wealthy been saying on this subject?” I know very little of courts or the usages of court procedure, but I know that I should have put this question if I had been conducting this examination.

The Coroner evidently was not of my mind, which certainly was not strange, seeing where his sympathies were.

“What do you mean by little?”

“Ten minutes.”

“By the clock?”

“Yes, sir,” said rather sheepishly.

“Proceed; what happened next?”

“I went immediately to Mr. Bartholomew’s room, thinking that of course he would be ready for me now. But he was not. Instead, he bade me leave him and not come back for a full half hour, and not to allow any one else to disturb him. I was to give the same order to Wealthy.”

“And did you?”

“Yes, sir; and left her on the watch.”

“And where did you go?”

“To my room for a smoke.”

“Were you concerned at leaving Mr. Bartholomew alone for so long a time?”

“Yes, sir; we never liked to do that. He had grown to be too feeble. But he was not a man you could disobey even for his own good.”

“Did you spend the whole half hour in smoking?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Not leaving your room at all?”

“Oh, I left my room several times, going no further, though, than the end of my small hall.”

“Why did you do this?”

“Because Mr. Bartholomew had been so very peremptory about anybody coming to his room. I had every confidence in Wealthy, but I could not help going now and then to see if she was still on the watch.”

“With what result?”

“She was always there. I did not speak to her, not wishing her to know that I was keeping tabs on her. But each time I went I could see the hem of her dress protruding from behind the screen and knew that she, like myself, was waiting for the half hour to be up. As soon as it was, I stepped boldly down the hall, telling Wealthy as I passed that I should make short work of putting the old gentleman to bed and for her to be ready to follow me in a very few minutes. And I kept my word. Mr. Bartholomew was still sitting in his chair when I went in. He had the two documents in his hand and asked me to place them, together with the other papers, on the small stand at the side of the bed. And there they stayed up to the time I gave place to Wealthy. This is all I have to tell about that night. I went from his room to mine and slept till we were all wakened by the ill news that Mr. Bartholomew had been taken worse and was rapidly sinking.”

There was an instant’s lull during which I realized my own disappointment. I had heard nothing that I had not known before. Then the Coroner said:

“Did your duties in Mr. Bartholomew’s room during these months of illness include at any time the handling of his medicines?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you ever visit his medicine cabinet, or take anything from its shelves?”

“No, sir.”

“You must often have poured him out a glass of water?”

“Oh, yes, I have done that.”

“Did you do so on that night? Think carefully before you answer.”

“I do not need to, for I am very sure that I handed him nothing. I do not even remember seeing the usual pitcher and glass anywhere in the room.”

“Not on the stand at his side?”

“No, sir.”

“Nothing of the kind near him?”

“Not that I saw, sir.”

“Very good; you may step down.”

XXVIII

Wealthy was the next witness summoned, and her appearance on the stand caused a flutter of excitement to pass from end to end of the well packed room. All knew that from her, if from anybody, enlightenment must come as to what had taken place in the few fatal hours which had elapsed after Clarke’s departure from the room. Would she respond to our hopes? Would she respond to mine? Or would she leave the veil half raised from sheer inability to lift it higher?

Conscious that the blood was leaving my cheeks and fearful that she could not hold the attention of the crowd from myself, I sought for relief in the face of Edgar. He must know her whole story. Also whom it threatened. Would I be able to read in his lip and eye, ordinarily so expressive, what we had to expect?

No. He was giving nothing away. He was not even looking with anything like attention at anybody; not even my way as I had half expected. The mobile lip was straight; the eye, usually sparkling with intelligence, fixed to the point of glassiness.

I took in that look well; the time might come when I should find it wise to recall it.

Wealthy is a good-looking woman, with that kind of comeliness which speaks of a warm heart and motherly instincts. Seen in the home, whether at work or at rest, she was the embodiment of all that insured comfort and ease to those under her care. She was more than a servant, more than nurse, and as such was regarded with favor by every one in the house, even by my poor unappreciated self.

In public and before the eyes of this mixed assemblage she showed the same pleasing characteristics. I began to breathe more easily. Surely she might be trusted not to be swayed sufficiently by malice, either to evade or color the truth. For all her love for Edgar, she will be true to herself. She cannot help it with that face and demeanor.

The Coroner showed her every consideration. This was but due to the grief she so resolutely endeavored to keep under. All through the opening questions and answers which were mainly corroborative of much that had gone before, he let her sometimes garrulous replies pass without comment, though the spectators frequently evinced impatience in their anxiety to reach the point upon which the real mystery hung.

It came at last and was welcomed by a long drawn breath from many an overburdened breast.

“Mr. Clarke has said that on leaving Mr. Bartholomew’s room for the last time that night, he saw the two envelopes about which so much has been said still lying on the little stand drawn up by the bedside. Were they there when you went into the room?”

“Yes, sir; I noticed them immediately. The stand is very near the door by which I usually enter, and it was a matter of habit with me to take a look at my patient before busying myself with making my final preparations for the night. As I did this, I observed some documents lying there and as it was never his custom to leave business papers lying about I asked him if he would not like to have me put them away for him. But he answered no, not to bother, for there was something he wanted me to get for him which would take me down into Miss Orpha’s room, and as it was growing late I had better go at once. ‘Mind you,’ he said, ‘she is but a girl and may not remember where she has put it; but, if so, she must look for it and you are not to come back until she has found it, if you have to stay an hour.’

“As the thing he wanted was a little white silk shawl which had been her mother’s, and as the dear child did not know exactly in which of two or three chests she had hidden it, it did take time to find it, and it was with a heart panting with anxiety that I finally started to go back, knowing what a hard evening he had had and how often the doctor had told us that he was to be kept quiet and above all never to be left very long alone. But I was more frightened yet when I got about halfway upstairs, for, for the first time since I have lived in the house, though I have been up and down that flight hundreds of times, I felt the Presence—”

“You may cut that out,” came kindly but peremptorily from the Coroner, probably to the immense disappointment of half the people there.

The Presence on that night!

I myself felt a superstitious thrill at the thought, though I had laughed a dozen times at this old wives’ tale.

“Tell your story straight,” admonished the Coroner.

“I will, sir. I mean to, sir. I only wanted to explain how I came to stumble in rushing up those stairs and yet how quick I was to stop when I heard something on reaching the top which frightened me more than any foolish fancy. This was the sound of a click in the hall towards the front. Some one was turning the key in Mr. Bartholomew’s door—the one nearest the street. As this door is only used on occasion it startled me. Besides, who would do such a thing? There was no one in the hall, for I ran quickly the length of it to see. So it must have been done from the inside and by whom then but by Mr. Bartholomew himself. But I had left him in bed! Here was a coil; and strong as I am I found myself catching at the banisters for support, for I did not understand his locking the door when he was in the room alone. However, he may have had his reasons, and rather ashamed of my agitation I was hurrying back to the other door when I heard a click there, and realized that the doors were being unlocked and not locked;—that he was expecting me and was making the way open for me to come in. Had I arrived a few minutes sooner I should not have been able to enter. It gave me a turn. My sick master shut up there alone! Locked in by himself! I had never known him to do such a thing all the time he was ill, and I had to quiet myself a bit before I dared go in. When I did, he was lying in bed looking very white but peaceful enough; more peaceful indeed than he had at any time that day. ‘Is that you, Wealthy?’ he asked. ‘Where is the little shawl? Give it to me.’ I handed it to him and he laid it, folded as it was, against his cheek. I felt troubled, I hardly knew why and stood looking at him. He smiled and glancing at the little pile of documents lying on the stand told me that I could put them away now. ‘Here is the key,’ he said; I took it from his hand after seeing him draw it from under the pillow. I had often used it for him. Unlocking the drawer which was set into the head-board of his bed where it jutted into the alcove, I reached for the papers and locked them up in the drawer and handed him back the key. ‘Thank you,’ he said and turned his face from the light. It was the signal for me to drop the curtain hanging at that side of the bed. This I did—”

“One moment. In handling the papers you speak of did you notice them particularly?”

“Not very, sir. I remember that the top one was in a dark brown envelope and bulky.”

“Which side was up?”

“The flap side.”

“Sealed?”

“No, open; that is loose, not fastened down.”

“You noticed that?”

“I couldn’t help it. It was right under my eyes.”

“Did you notice anything else? That there was a second envelope in the pile similar to the one on top.”

“I cannot say that I did. The papers were all bunched, you see, and I just lifted them quickly and put them in the drawer.”

“Why quickly?”

“Mr. Bartholomew was looking at me, sir.”

“Then you did not note that there was another envelope in that pile, just like the top one, only empty?”

“I did not, sir.”

“Very good. You may go on now. You dropped the curtain. What did you do next?”

“I prepared his soothing medicine.” Her voice fell and an expression of great trouble crossed her countenance. “I always had this ready in case he should grow restless in the night.”

“A soothing medicine! Where was that kept?”

“With the rest of the medicines in the cabinet built into the small passage-way leading to the upper door.”

“And you went there for the soothing medicine. At about what time?”

“Not far from eleven o’clock, sir: I remember thinking as I passed by the mantel-clock how displeased Dr. Cameron would be if he knew that Mr. Bartholomew’s light was not yet out.”

“Go on; what about the medicine? Did you give it to him every night?”

“Not every night, but frequently. I always had it ready.”

“Will you step down a minute? I want to ask Dr. Cameron a few questions about this soothing medicine.”

The interruption was welcome; we all needed a moment’s respite. Dr. Cameron was again sworn. He had given his testimony at length earlier in the day but it had been mainly in reference to a very different sort of medicine, and it was of this simpler and supposedly very innocent mixture that the Coroner wished to learn a few facts.

Dr. Cameron was very frank with his replies. Told just what it was; what the dose consisted of and how harmless it was when given according to directions. “I have never known,” he added, “of Mrs. Starr ever making any mistake in preparing or administering it. The other medicine of which I have already given a detailed account I have always prepared myself.”

“It is of that other medicine taken in connection with this one of which I wish to ask. Say the two were mixed what would be the result?”

“The powerful one would act, whatever it was mixed with.”

“How about the color? Would one affect the other?”

“If plenty of water were used, the change in color would hardly be perceptible.”

“Thank you, doctor; we can release you now.”

The doctor stepped down, whereupon a recess was called, to the disappointment and evident chagrin of a great many.

XXIX

The mood of the Coroner changed with the afternoon session. He was curter in speech and less patient with the garrulity of his witnesses. Perhaps he dreaded the struggle which he foresaw awaited him.

He plunged at once into the topic he had left unfinished and at the precise point where he had left off. Wealthy had resumed her place on the stand.

“And where did you put this soothing mixture after you had prepared it?”

“Where I always did—on the shelf hanging in the corner on the further side of the bed—the side towards the windows. I did this so that it would not be picked up by mistake for a glass of water left on his stand.”

“Tell that to the jury again, Mrs. Starr. That the soothing medicine of which you speak was in a glass on the shelf we all can see indicated on the chart above your head, and plain water in a glass standing on the table on the near side of the bed.”

“Excuse me, Doctor Jones, I did not mean to say that there was any glass of water on the small stand that night. There was not. He did not seem to want it, so I left the water in a pitcher on the table by the hearth. I only meant that it being my usual custom to have it there I got in the habit of putting anything in the way of medicine as far removed from it as possible.”

“Mrs. Starr, when did you prepare this soothing medicine as you call it?”

“Soon after I entered the room.”

“Before Mr. Bartholomew slept?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Tell how you did it, where you did it and what Mr. Bartholomew said while you were doing it—that is, if he said anything at all.”

“The bottle holding this medicine was kept, as I have already said, with all the other medicines, in the cabinet hanging in the upper passageway.” Every eye rose to the chart. “The water in a pitcher on the large table to the left of the fire-place. Filling a glass with this water which I had drawn myself, I went to the medicine cabinet and got the bottle containing the drops the doctor had ordered for this purpose, and carrying it over to the table, together with the medicine-dropper, added the customary ten drops to the water and put the bottle back in the cabinet and the glass with the medicine in it on the shelf. Mr. Bartholomew’s face was turned my way and he naturally followed my movements as I passed to and fro; but he showed no especial interest in them, nor did he speak.”

“Was this before or after you dropped the curtain on the other side of the bed.”

“After.”

“The bed, I have been given to understand, is surrounded on all sides by heavy curtains which can be pulled to at will. Was the one you speak of the only one to be dropped or pulled at night?”

“Usually. You see Miss Orpha’s picture hangs between the windows and was company for him if he chanced to wake in the night.”

Again that sob, but fainter than before and to me very far off. Or was it that I felt so far removed myself—pushed aside and back from the grief and sufferings of this family?

The heads which turned at this low but pathetic sound were soon turned back again as the steady questioning went on:

“You speak of going to the medicine cabinet. It was your business, no doubt, to go there often.”

“Very often; I was his nurse, you see.”

“There was another bottle of medicine kept there—the one labeled ‘Dangerous’?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did you see that bottle when you went for the soothing mixture you speak of?”

“No, sir.” This was very firmly said. “I wasn’t thinking of it, and the bottle I wanted being in front I just pulled it out and never looked at any other.”

“This other bottle—the dangerous one—where was that kept?”

“Way back behind several others. I had put it there when the doctor told us that we were not to give him any more of that especial medicine without his orders.”

“If you went to this cabinet so often you must have a very good idea of just how it looked inside.”

“I have, sir,” her voice falling a trifle—at least, I thought I detected a slight change in it as if the emotion she had so bravely kept under up to this moment was beginning to make itself felt.

“Then tell us if everything looked natural to you when you went to it this time; everything in order,—nothing displaced.”

“I did not notice. I was too intent on what I was after. Besides, if I had—”

“Well, go on.”

Her brows puckered in distress; and I thought I saw her hand tremble where it showed amid the folds of her dress. If no other man held his breath at that short interim in which not a sound was heard, I did. Something was about to fall from her lips—

But she was speaking.

“If I had observed any disorder such as you mention I should not have thought it at all strange. I am not the only one who had access to that cabinet. His daughter often went to it, and—and the young gentlemen, too.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What should take them there?”

Her head lifted, her voice steadied, she looked the capable, kindly person of a few moments ago. That thrill of emotion was gone; perhaps I have overemphasized it.

“We all worked together, sir. The young gentlemen, that is one or the other of them, often took my place in the room, especially at night, and Mr. Bartholomew, used to being waited on and having many wants, they had learned how to take care of him and give him what he called for.”

“And this took them to the cabinet?”

“Undoubtedly; it held a great variety of things besides his medicines.”

The Coroner paused. During the most trying moment of my life every eye in the room turned on me, not one on Edgar.

I bore it stoically; a feeling I endeavored to crush making havoc in my heart.

Then the command came:

“Continue with your story. You have given us the incidents of the night such as you observed them before Mr. Bartholomew slept; you will now relate what happened after.”

Again I watched her hand. It had clenched itself tightly and then loosened as these words rang out from the seat of authority. The preparation for what she had to tell had been made; the time had now come for its relation. She began quietly, but who could tell how she would end.

“For an hour I kept my watch on the curtained side of the bed. It was very still in the room, so deathly still that after awhile I fell asleep in my chair. When I woke it was suddenly and with a start of fear. I was too confused at first to move and as I sat listening, I heard a slight sound on the other side of the bed, followed by the unmistakable one of a softly closing door. My first thought, of course, was for my patient and throwing the curtains aside, I looked through. The room was light enough, for one of the logs on the hearth had just broken apart, and the glow it made lit up Mr. Bartholomew’s face and showed me that he was sleeping. Relieved at the sight, I next asked myself who could have been in the room at an hour so late, and what this person wanted. I was not frightened, now that I was fully awake, and being curious, nothing more, I drew the portière from before the passage-way at my back and, stepping to the door beyond, opened it and looked out.”

Here she became suddenly silent, and so intent were we all in anticipation of what her next words would reveal, that the shock caused by this unexpected break in her story, vented itself in a sort of gasp from the parched lips and throats of the more excitable persons present. It was a sound not often heard save on the theatrical stage at a moment of great suspense, and the effect upon the witness was so strange that I forgot my own emotion in watching her as she opened her lips to continue and then closed them again, with a pitiful glance at the Coroner.

He seemed to understand her and made a kindly effort to help her in this sudden crisis of feeling.

“Take your time, Mrs. Starr,” he said. “We are well aware that testimony of this nature must be painful to you, but it is necessary and must be given. You opened the door and looked out. What did you see?”

“A man—or, rather, the shadow of a man outlined very dimly on the further wall of the hall.”

“What man?”

“I do not know, sir.”

She did; the woman was lying. No one ever looked as she did who was in doubt as to what she saw. But the Coroner intentionally or unintentionally blind to this very decided betrayal of her secret, still showed a disposition to help her.

“Was it so dark?”

“Yes, sir. The electrolier at the stair-head had been put out probably by him as he passed, for—”

It was a slip. I saw it in the way her face changed and her voice faltered as with one accord every eye in the assemblage before her turned quickly towards the chart.

I did not need to look. I know that hall by heart. The electrolier she spoke of was nearer the back than the front; to put it out in passing, meant that the person stopping to extinguish it was heading towards the rear end of the hall. In other words, Clarke or myself. As it was not myself—

But she must have thought it was, for when the Coroner, drawing the same conclusion, pressed her to describe the shadow and, annoyed at her vague replies, asked her point blank if it could be that of Clarke, she shook her head and finally acknowledged that it was much too slim.

“A man’s, though?”

“Certainly, a man’s.”

“And what became of this shadow?”

“It was gone in a minute; disappeared at the turn of the wall.”

She had the grace to droop her head, as if she realized what she was doing and took but little pleasure in it. My estimation of her rose on the instant; for she did not like me, was jealous of every kindness my uncle had shown me, and yet felt compunction over what she was thus forced into saying.

“If she knew! Ah, if she knew!” passed in tumult through my brain; and I bore the stare of an hundred eyes as I could not have borne the stare of one if that one had been Orpha’s. Thank God, her veil was so thick.

Further questions brought out little more concerning this incident. She had not followed the shadow, she had not looked at the clock, she had not even gone around the bed to see what had occasioned the peculiar noise she had heard. She had not thought it of sufficient importance. Indeed, she had not attached any importance to the incident at the time, since her patient had not been wakened and late visits were not uncommon in that sick-room where the interest of everybody in the house centered, night as well as day.

But, when Mr. Bartholomew at last grew restless and she went for the medicine she had prepared, she saw with some astonishment that it was not in the exact place on the shelf where she had placed it,—or, at least, in the exact place where she felt sure that she had placed it. But even this did not alarm her or arouse her suspicion. How could it when everybody in the house was devoted to its master—or at all events gave every evidence of being so. Besides, she might have been mistaken as to where she had set down the glass. Her memory was not what it was,—and so on and so on till the Coroner stopped her with the query:

“And what did you do? Did you give him the dose his condition seemed to call for?”

“I did; and my heart is broken at the thought.” She showed it. Tears were welling from her eyes and her whole body shook with the sob she strove to suppress. “I can never forgive myself that I did not suspect—mix a fresh draught—do anything but put that spoon filled with doubtful liquor between his lips. But how could I imagine that any one would tamper with the medicines in that cabinet. That any one would—”

Here she was stopped again, peremptorily this time, and her testimony switched to the moment when she saw the first signs of anything in Mr. Bartholomew’s condition approaching collapse and how long it was after she gave him the medicine.

“Some little time. I was not watching the clock. Perhaps I slept again—I shall never know, but if I did, it was the sound of a sudden gasp from behind the curtains which started me to my feet. It was like a knife going through me, for I had a long experience with the sick before I came to C—— and knew that it foretold the end.

“I was still surer of this when I bent over to look at him. He was awake, but I shall never forgot his eye. ‘Wealthy,’ he whispered, exerting himself to speak plainly, ‘call the children—call all of them—bid them come without delay—all is over with me—I shall not live out the coming day. But first, the bowl—the one in the bathroom—bring it here—put it on the stand—and two candles—lighted—don’t look; act!’ It was the master ordering a slave. There was nothing to do but to obey. I went to the bathroom, found the bowl he wanted, brought it, brought the candles, lighted them, turned on the electricity, for the candles were mere specks in that great room and then started for the door. But he called me back. ‘I want the two envelopes,’ he cried. ‘Open the drawer and get them. Now put them in my hands, one in my right, the other in my left, and hasten, for I fear to—to lose my speech.’

“I rushed—I was terrified to leave him alone even for an instant but to cross him in his least wish might mean his death, so I fled like a wild woman through the halls, first to Mr. Edgar’s room, then downstairs to Miss Orpha and later—not till after I had seen these two on their way to Mr. Bartholomew’s room, to the rear hall and Mr. Quenton’s door.”

“What did you do there?”

“I both knocked and called.”

“What did you say?”

“That his uncle was worse, and for him to come immediately. That Mr. Bartholomew found difficulty in speaking and wanted to see them all before his power to do so failed.”

“Did he answer?”

“Instantly; opening the door and coming out. He was in Mr. Bartholomew’s room almost as soon as the others.”

“How could that be? Did he not stop to dress?”

“He was already dressed, just as he rose from dinner.”

What followed has already been told; I will not enlarge upon it. The burning of the one will in the presence of Orpha, Edgar and myself, with Wealthy Starr standing in the background. Uncle’s sudden death before he could tell us where the will containing his last wishes could be found, and the shock we had all received at the astonishment shown by the doctor at his patient having succumbed so suddenly when he had fully expected him to live another fortnight.

The excitement which had been worked up to fever-point gradually subsided after this and, the hour being late, the inquiry was adjourned, to be continued the next day.

XXX

In my haste to be through with the record of a testimony which so unmistakably gave the impression that I was the man who had tampered with the medicine which prematurely ended my uncle’s fast failing life, I omitted to state Wealthy’s eager admission that notwithstanding the doctor’s surprise at the sudden passing of his patient and her own knowledge that the room contained a previously used medicine which had been pronounced dangerous to him at this stage of his illness, she did not connect these two facts in her mind even then as cause and effect. Not till the dreadful night in which she heard the word poison uttered over Mr. Bartholomew’s casket, did she realize what the peculiar sound which had roused her from her nap beside the sick-bed really was. It was the setting down of the glass on the shelf from which it had been previously lifted.

This was where the proceedings had ended; and it was at this point they were taken up the next day.

I say nothing of the night between; I have tried to forget it. God grant the day will come when I may. Nor shall I enter into any description of the people who filled the room on this occasion or of the change in Orpha’s appearance or in that of such persons towards whom my eyes, hot with the lack of sleep, wandered during the first half hour. I am eager to go on; eager to tell the worst and have done with this part of my story.

To return then to Wealthy’s testimony as continued from the day before. The casket in which Mr. Bartholomew’s body had been laid on the morning of the second day had been taken in the early evening down into the court. She had not accompanied it. When asked why, she said that Mr. Edgar had asked her to remain in the room, and on no account to leave it without locking both doors. So she had stayed until she heard a scream ringing up through the house, and convinced from its hysterical sound that it came from one of the maids, she hastened to lock the one door which had been left unfastened, and go below. As in company with Mr. Quenton and Clarke she reached the balcony on the second floor, she could see that there were several persons in the court, so she stopped where she was, and simply looked down at what was going on. It was then she got the shock of her life. The girl who had uttered the scream was pointing at her dead master’s face and shouting the word poison. One can imagine what passed through her mind as the clouds cleared away from it and she realized to what in her ignorance she had been made a party to.

She certainly made the jury feel it, though she was less garrulous and simpler in her manners than on the previous day; and hardly knowing what to expect from her peculiar sense of duty, I was in dread anticipation of hearing her relate the few words which had passed between us as Orpha fell into my arms,—words in which she accused me of being the cause of all this trouble.

But she spared me that, either because she did not know how to obtrude it without help from the Coroner, or because she had enough right feeling not to emphasize the suspicion already roused against me by her previous testimony.

Grateful for this much grace, I restrained my own anxieties and listened intently for what else she had to say, in the old hope that some word would yet fall from her lips or some glance escape from her eye which would give me the clew to the hand which had really lifted that glass and set it down a little further along the shelf.

I thought I was on its track when she came to the visit she had paid to the room above in the company of Edgar and Orpha. But I heard little new. The facts elicited were well-known ones. They had approached the cabinet together, looked into it together, and, pushing the bottles about, brought out the one for which they were seeking from the very place in the rear of the shelf where she had put it herself when told that it would not be required any longer.

“Yes, that is the bottle,” she declared, as the Coroner lifted a small phial from the table before him and held it up in her sight and in that of the jury. As he did this, I could scarcely hide the sickening thrill which for a moment caused everything to turn black around me. For the label was written large and the word Poison had a ghastly look to one who had loved Edgar Quenton Bartholomew. When I could see and hear again, Wealthy was saying:

“A few drops wouldn’t be missed. My memory isn’t good enough for me to be sure of a fact like that.”

Evidently she had been asked if on taking the phial from the shelf she had noticed any diminution of its contents since she had last handled it.

“You say that you pushed the bottles aside in order to get at this one. Was that necessary? Could you not have reached in over them and lifted it out?”

“I never thought of doing that; none of us did. We were all anxious to satisfy ourselves as to whether or not the bottle was there and just took the quickest way we knew of finding out.”

“But you could have got hold of it in the way I suggested? Reached in, I mean, and pulled it out without disarranging the other bottles?”

She stopped to think; contracting her brows and stealing what I felt sure was a look at Edgar.

“It would have been difficult,” she finally conceded: “but a person with long fingers might have got hold of it all right. The bottles in front and around it were not very large. Much of the same size as the one you just showed us.”

“Then in your opinion this could have been done?”

(I heard afterwards that it had been done by one of the police operatives.)

“It could have been done.”

Almost doggedly she said it.

“Without making much noise?”

“Without making any if the person doing it knew exactly where the phial was to be found.”

Not doggedly now, but incisively.

“And how many of the household, to your definite knowledge, did?”

“Three, besides myself. Miss Orpha, Mr. Edgar and Mr. Quenton, all of whom shared my nursing.”

The warmth with which she uttered the first two names, the coldness with which she uttered mine! Was it intentional, or just the natural expression of her feelings? Whatever prompted this distinction in tone, the effect was to signal me out as definitely as though a brand had left its scorching mark upon my forehead.

And I innocent!

Why I did not leap to my feet I do not know. I thought I did, shouting a wild disclaimer. If men stared and women shrieked that was nothing to me. All that I cared for was Orpha sitting there listening to this hellish accusation. So maddened was I, so dead to all human conditions that I doubt if I should have been surprised had the ghostly figure of my uncle evolved itself from air and taken its place on the witness-stand in revolt against this horror. Anything was possible, but to let the world—by which I meant Orpha—believe this thing for a moment.

All this tumult in brain and heart, and my body quiet, fixed, with not a muscle so much as quivering. By what force was I thus withheld? Possibly by some hypnotic influence exerted by Mr. Jackson, for when I looked in his direction I found him gazing very earnestly in mine. I smiled. It must have been a very dreary smile and ironic in the extreme; for my heart was filled with bitterness and could express itself in no other way.

The decided shake of the head which he gave me in return had its effect, however, and digging my nails into my palm, I listened to what followed with all the stoicism the situation called for.

I was still in a state of rigid self-control when I heard my name spoken loudly and with command and woke to the fact that Wealthy had been dismissed from the stand and that I was to be the next witness.

Was I ready for it? I must be; and to test my strength, I cast one straight look at Orpha. She had lifted her veil and met my gaze fairly. Had there been guilt in my heart—

But I could pass her without shame; and sustained by this fact, I took my place on the stand with a calmness I had hardly expected to show in the face of this prejudiced throng.

XXXI

As my story, sometimes elicited by questions and sometimes allowed to take the form of an uninterrupted narrative, differed in no essential from the one already given in these pages, I see no reason for recapitulating it here any more than I did the one I told days before to the Inspector. Fixed in my determination to be honest in all I said but not to say any more than was required, I was able to hear unmoved the low murmurs which now and then rose from the center of the room as I made some unexpected reply or revealed, as I could not help doing, the strength of the tie which united me to my deceased uncle. No one believed in that and consequently attributed any assertion of the kind to hypocrisy; and with this I had to contend from the beginning to the end, softened perhaps a little towards the last, but still active enough to make my position a very trying one.

The result of my examination must be given, however, even if I have to indulge in some repetition.

My testimony, if accepted as truth, established certain facts.

They were these:

That Mr. Bartholomew had changed his mind more than once as to which of us two nephews he would leave the bulk of his fortune:

That he had shown positive decision only on the night preceding his death, declaring to me that I was his final choice:

That, notwithstanding this, he had not then and there destroyed the will antagonistic to this decision, as would seem natural if his mind had been really settled in its resolve; but had kept them both in hand up to the time of my departure from the room:

That late in the night after a long séance with myself in the library on the lower floor, I had come upstairs, and in my anxiety to know whether my uncle were awake or resting quietly after so disturbing an evening, had stopped to listen first at one of his doors and then at the other; but had refrained from going in, or even seeing my uncle again until summoned with the rest of the family to hear his dying wishes:

That when he handed one of the wills to his daughter and bade her burn it in the large bowl he had ordered placed at his bedside, I believed it to be the one I had expected to see him burn the night before, and that I just as confidently believed that the one which had been taken from the other envelope and put away in some spot not yet discovered was the one designating me as his chief heir according to his promise, and should so believe until it was found and I was shown to the contrary. (This in justification of my confidence in him and also to refute the idea in so far as I was able, that I had been so fearful of his changing his mind again that I was willing to cut his life short rather than run the risk of losing my inheritance.)

For I was sensible enough to see that to minds so prejudiced, the fact that the will favoring myself having been the last one drawn, afforded them sufficient excuse for a supposition which seemed the only explanation possible for the mystery they were facing.

A few were undoubtedly influenced either by my earnestness or the dignity which innocence gives to the suspected man, but the many, not; and when at the conclusion of my testimony I was forced to repass Orpha on my way back to my seat, I found that I no longer had the courage to meet her eye, lest I should see pity there or, what was worse, an attempt to accept what I had to say against reason and possibly against her own judgment.

But when her name was called and with a quick unveiling of her face she took her place upon the stand, I could not keep my glances back, for I was thinking now, not of myself but of her and the suffering which she must undergo if her examination was to be of any help in disentangling the threads of this involved inquiry.

That I was justified in my fears was at once apparent, for the first question which attracted attention and drew every head forward in breathless interest and undisguised curiosity was this:

“Miss Bartholomew, I regret that I must trespass upon matters which in my respect for yourself and family I should be glad to leave untouched. But conditions force me to ask if the rumor is correct that you are engaged to marry your cousin, Edgar, with whom you have been brought up.”

“No,” she answered at once, with that clear ring to her voice which carried it without effort to the remotest corners of the room. “I am engaged to no one. But am under an obligation, gladly entered into because it was my father’s wish, to marry the man—if the gentleman so pleases—to whom my father has willed the greater portion of his money.”

The Coroner raised his gavel, but laid it down again, for the excitement called forth by the calm dignity of this answer, was of that deep and absorbing kind which shrinks from noisy demonstration.

“Miss Bartholomew, do you know or have you any suspicion as to where your father concealed the will which will settle this question?”

“None whatever.”

And now, the sweet voice wavered.

“You know your father’s room well?”

“Every inch of it.”

“And can imagine no place in it where he might have thrust this document on taking it out of the envelope?”

“None.”

“Miss Bartholomew, you have heard the last witness state that your father distinctly told him on the night before his death that he had decided to make him his chief inheritor. Did your father ever make the same declaration to you?”

“He has said that he found my foreign cousin admirable.”

“That hardly answers my question, Miss Bartholomew.”

The pink came out on her cheeks. Ah; how lovely she was! But in what trouble also.

“He once asked me if I could rely on his judgment in the choice of my future husband?” came reluctantly from her lips. “Up till then I had not been aware that there was to be any choice.”

“You mean—”

“That I had never been given reason to think that there was any man living whom he could prefer for a real son to the nephew who lived like a son in the family.”

“Can you remember just when this occurred? Was it before or after the ball held in your house?”

“It was after; some weeks after.”

“After he had been ill for some little time, then?”

“Yes, sir.”

The Coroner glanced at the jury; and the jurymen at each other. She must have observed this, for a subtle change passed over her face which revealed the steadfast woman without taking from the winsomeness of her girlishness so well known to all.

She was yet in the glow of whatever sentiment had been aroused within her, when she was called upon to reply to a series of questions concerning this ball, leading up, as I knew they must, to one which had been in my own mind ever since that event. What had passed between her and her father when, on hearing he was ill, she went up to see him in his own room.

“I found him ailing but indisposed to say much about it. What he wanted was to tell me that on account of not feeling quite himself, he had decided not to have any public announcement made of his plans for Edgar and myself. That would keep. But lest our friends who had expected something of the kind might feel aggrieved, he proposed that as a substitute for it, another announcement should be made which would give them almost equal pleasure,—that of the engagement of his ward, Miss Colfax, to Dr. Hunter. And this was done.”

“And was this all which passed between you at this time? No hint of a quarrel between himself and the nephew for whom he had contemplated such honor?”

“He said nothing that would either alarm or sadden me. He was very cheerful, almost gay, all the time I was in the room. Alas! how little we knew!”

It was the spontaneous outburst of a bereaved child and the Coroner let it pass. Would he could have spared her the next question. But his fixed idea of my guilt would not allow this and I had to sit there and hear him say:

“In the days which followed, during which you doubtless had many opportunities of seeing both of your cousins, did the attentions of the one you call Quenton savor at all of those of courtship?”

“No, sir. We were all too absorbed in caring for my sick father to think of anything of that kind.”

It was firmly but sweetly said, and such was the impression she made on the crowd before her, that I saw a man who was lounging against the rear wall, unconsciously bow his head in token of his respect for her womanliness.

The Coroner, a little impressed himself perhaps, sat in momentary silence and when he was ready to proceed, chose a less embarrassing subject. What it was I do not remember now, nor is it of importance that I should enlarge any further on an examination which left things very much as they were and had been from the beginning. By the masses convened there I was considered guilty, but by a few, not; and as the few had more than one representative in the jury, the verdict which was finally given was the usual one where certainty is not attained.

Murder by poison administered by a person unknown.