good. Well, as I sat there—”
“Excuse me a moment, Miss Fordyce, which is your room?”
“Directly over this,” she replied; “on the second floor.”
“I have the front room on the other side of the second floor,” I said, realizing that she could not see the East wing from her window.
“Yes, I know,” said Mrs. Stelton; “you have the room directly over Anne’s. Mr. Archer’s room is over Mr. Van Wyck’s bedroom. Mr. Van Wyck used to have the room Mr. Archer has now, before he married Anne. Then he had the first floor suite done up, and positively the rooms are of regal splendor. Why, Anne’s dressing-room—”
“Go on with your story, please, Miss Fordyce,” I said, taking advantage of one of Mrs. Stelton’s pauses for breath.
“As I sat by my window,” the girl went on, “I saw a very large motor car come slowly along the main road. It halted now and then, not as if because of any mechanical trouble, but as if its driver hesitated about proceeding. After stopping two or three times, it finally came into the grounds, and up our main road. But it continued to pause now and then until at last it made a mad dash around the house, passing right under my window. I didn’t see the car again, but a few moments later, I saw some person wrapped in a large coat, walk stealthily by my window. I don’t know whether it was a man or a woman, but whoever it was, seemed afraid of being seen. For the dark figure hid twice behind trees, and then suddenly ran swiftly away in the same direction the motor car had gone.”
“At what time did all this happen?” I asked.
“I’m not sure; but it was not far from midnight. At any rate, between twelve and one.”
“Miss Fordyce,” I said, “as you know, a great mystery at present surrounds the death of Mr. Van Wyck. This incident you saw, may have a bearing on the matter, and it may not But won’t you promise me not to speak of it to anyone else? And at the coroner’s inquest, which will be held this afternoon, won’t you tell this story simply and straightforwardly, as you have told it to me?”
“At the inquest!” Miss Fordyce exclaimed; “oh, I just couldn’t!”
“Yes, you can!” I answered her, sternly, “and you must. If you do it rightly, you may be of great help to the whole Van Wyck family; while, if you are foolish about it, you may impede justice and cause untold trouble.”
“There, I told you so!” cried Mrs. Stelton. “I knew it was important Now, Beth, you come along with me. I’ll see to it, Mr. Sturgis, that this girl tells her story and tells it right, when she is called upon to do so.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stelton,” I said, heartily, and I had never liked the little lady so well before. “Keep Miss Fordyce up to the mark and don’t let her slip away into her dreams and visions.”
The two went away together, and I started off for a stroll by myself, to see what a little fresh air would do towards straightening out the complex questions that were baffling my brain.
Chapter VIII.
Enter, a Detective
I walked along the paths, my eyes cast down, and my hands behind me, while I brooded over the situation. I had the grace to be utterly ashamed of the fact, that beneath all other considerations, I was conscious of a realization that Anne was now free. I would not allow myself to put this thought into words; I tried to evade and ignore it; but it brought a peace to my soul that shone steadily through all the disturbing problems that filled my consciousness.
First, was the great problem of Van Wyck’s death. Was it suicide or murder? And then I thought, how futile even to wonder about that, until the inquest, when unexpected disclosures might immediately solve the mystery.
Next was the problem of what Anne would do. But that, it seemed to me, was an indelicacy even to think about, at present. So I resolutely put it away from me, and turned my thoughts to the story Beth Fordyce had told. It was certainly strange that a motor should come into the Van Wyck estate at midnight, and that it should alternately halt and proceed in such a mysterious manner. Also that its entrance and disappearance should be followed by the presence of a stealthy, cloaked figure.
But again, was Beth Fordyce’s word reliable? I had no doubt of her integrity;—but the girl had such strange fancies and such a vivid imagination, that I could not place implicit reliance on the story as she had told it.
To her distorted mental vision, a belated pedestrian might assume the mystery of a prowling marauder. And yet, she had said the figure passed under her window, which would of course mean some one intending, either rightly or wrongfully, to enter the house. And, too, the strange proceedings of the motor car,—though perhaps exaggerated by her,—could scarcely be all imagination, unless the girl had wilfully made up this story, which I did not believe.
But again, if the occupant of the motor car had indeed been a criminal,—a thief and a murderer,—with fell intent against David Van Wyck, how had he entered the study, committed his crimes, and departed again, leaving, every outlet of the room securely fastened on the inside?
This question proved unanswerable, so I gave it up and began to retrace my steps toward the house.
As I neared the stables, I noticed a man coming along the same road that I had seen Mrs. Carstairs slowly following, early that same morning. I paused a moment to watch him, and I saw that it was Carstairs, the valet. To my surprise, he repeated exactly the procedure of his mother. He stepped along slowly, carefully examining the ground, and had every appearance of a man searching for some small, lost article. He had a stick in his hand, and he even scraped the dirt of the road now and then, peering closely, as if in a desperate search.
I determined to come upon him suddenly, as I had surprised his mother, and see if he were as apt at explaining himself as she had been.
I approached very quietly, and as I was just at his elbow, I said, “What have you lost?”
The man dropped his stick, and raised a white, startled face.
“N-nothing,—sir. I assure you,—I have lost nothing!”
“What are you looking for, then? I will help you find it!”
I picked up the stick he had dropped, and began poking in the dust, myself. But he said, stammering, and with a pleading expression:
“N-no! I have not lost anything, sir. Give me back my stick, I beg of you.”
“Look here, Carstairs, it’s no crime to lose anything. But to be so secret about it, and so rattled, betokens a guilty conscience of some sort”
“Yes, sir; very good, sir. I’m not rattled, sir,—and indeed, indeed, sir, I have not lost anything.”
Clearly the man had not his mother’s faculty for rising to a situation. Without a doubt they had both been searching for the same thing, as I saw them both closely examining the ground in the same place. But she had tossed off my questions with witty repartee, while he was the embodiment of agonized embarrassment.
I went on toward the house,
