to the solution of this mystery, and thought that very likely it was a matter of no importance, anyway.
When I reached the house, Barbara met me with the welcome news that Anne desired to see me. I was conducted to her dressing-room, and as I entered, I realized the truth of what I had been told regarding the Van Wycks’ apartments. A more exquisite gem of a room, I never saw. It was furnished entirely in Louis Seize effects and was a miracle of gilded carving and rose-colored brocade.
“And you call this a dressing-room!” I said, endeavoring to be casual; “I think boudoir a more appropriate term.”
Anne smiled. “I hate a French word,” she said, “when English will do as well. And I especially dislike the term ‘sitting-room,’ so what could I do? And it is my dressing-room, as you see.” She waved her hand toward a daintily appointed toilet-table, glittering with glass and gold.
I scarcely knew whether to continue the conversation on trivial matters, or whether to speak of the tragedy. Anne herself was perfectly composed; though pale, and with an air of forcing herself to be quiet and natural.
But after a few moments of beating time, I said, “Let’s not evade the subject that fills both our minds. May we not speak of it?”
“How nice you are!” said Anne, and her eyes beamed with gratitude. “You always do the right thing, Raymond. My heart is bursting to talk of these things, yet everyone thinks I don’t want to!”
“Talk to me,” I said, gently, “just as you will. Say anything that is in your heart.”
I was on dangerous ground, and I knew it, but I held myself well in hand. Anne looked lovelier than ever, in a white lacy sort of boudoir gown and a lace cap on her beautiful hair. Also she looked pathetic and as if greatly in need of some one to lean on for sympathy and counsel.
“Let us talk it over freely,” I said; “you cannot be brave and courageous, Anne, as you must be, if you are afraid to face the facts. You don’t think your husband took his own life, do you?”
“I’m sure he did not. David had no reason for such an act. He was a man fond of life; and beside, he had this project of the library in mind, and he was more than anxious to carry it through. There is no reason,—there can be no reason,—why he should kill himself. But Raymond,” and her white brows drew tensely, “how could anyone kill him and get away afterward, leaving the study locked? I’ve thought over that until I’m nearly crazy. You see I know how perfectly impossible it is to get into that room when the door is locked. Because—”
“Because what?” I gently prompted her.
A look of pain came into her eyes, followed by a sudden determination; and she went on: “I may as well tell you; because my husband and I have had some fearful quarrels. Invariably he would go and shut himself in the study afterward. I knew it was my duty to try to make peace with him and often I have tried to get into the study in spite of him. I have even tried to get in at a window, while he would sit inside and smile at me in mockery.”
“What you have been through with that man!” I exclaimed.
“Yes; and yet he was often very good to me. At times he was a perfect brute, but it was because of his really ungovernable temper. Then again he would fairly spoil me with kindness. But of late his kindness had become more and more rare, and he was sarcastic and cruel much of the time. I tell you this, Raymond, because I want you to understand, that while I respected and admired David in many ways, I cannot mourn him as I would mourn a man I loved.”
This admission brought joy to my own heart, but I knew this was no time or place to let it be known, and as a matter of precaution, I hurriedly changed the subject.
“What a strange woman Mrs. Carstairs is,” I said; “had she an especial interest in Mr. Van Wyck?”
“Oh, she adored him,” and Anne spoke carelessly as if it were a matter of no moment to her. “At one time she hoped to marry him, but David had no such intention. So of course she resented my presence here, and has never been nice to me. It didn’t bother me much, though she is annoying. I tried to have her dismissed, but Carstairs is such a perfect valet, David would not give him up, so they both remained. Now they can both go!”
Anne spoke with a sudden vindictiveness, and just at that moment Mrs. Carstairs appeared in the open doorway. Her arrival was so opportune that I felt positive she had been listening outside the door. She did not seem angry, but there was a feline note in her voice as she said, “You were speaking of me, Mrs. Van Wyck?”
It is a tribute to Anne’s wonderful poise that she was in no way ruffled. She spoke quietly, as she replied, “Yes, Mrs. Carstairs, since you chanced to overhear, I am quite willing to repeat what I said. As there is no longer any occasion for your son’s services, you will doubtless prefer to go away with him. But I beg you will consult your own pleasure as to the time of your departure, and not feel obliged to make inconvenient haste.”
It was a clash of superior forces. If Anne showed self-control, the housekeeper was even more absolutely at ease.
“Thank you, Mrs. Van Wyck,” she returned, in silvery tones; “I shall take advantage of your kind permission, and remain here, at least until we have discovered the solution of the mystery that surrounds the death of Mr. Van Wyck. It may be that I can be of assistance to you.”
“I scarcely think that,” and Anne’s slight smile would have rasped a saint; “but you are at liberty to stay as long as you choose.”
The latter part of the speech was almost patronizing, and distinctly in the manner of a mistress to a servant, and it scored. Mrs. Carstairs’s eyes flashed, and she winced as if flicked with a whip; but in an instant she had dropped her eyelids, and though she merely said “Thank you,” and left the room, her air was so unvanquished, even victorious, that she really had the final word.
“You see,” said Anne, spreading her hands, deprecatingly, “one cannot contend with that sort of thing, except between equals!”
“I appreciate that perfectly,” I returned, very seriously; “but you must realize, Anne, that she is a dangerous woman. You are no match for her; because, though you have marvellous perceptions and mental powers, yet you are innocent and right-minded. That woman is all wrong. I don’t know in what respects,—I don’t know anything about her. But she is capable of crime!”
To my consternation, Anne turned white to the very lips. She put her hands before her eyes as if to shut out some dreadful sight, and she moaned in a whisper, “Oh, Raymond, I am capable of crime, too!”
“There, there,” I said, soothingly, “that woman has wrought on your nerves. For that matter, child, everybody is capable of crime. I had no business to say what I did. I’m a churl,—a mischief-maker.”
Anne lifted her eyes and almost smiled at my self-abasement, and then, as her maid entered the room, she said, “What is it, Jeannette?”
“Mr. Archer, madame. He wishes to see you.”
“Tell him to come in,” said Anne, graciously, and then herself added, “Come on in, Connie. There’s no one here but Mr. Sturgis.”
Archer came in, looking preoccupied. With scant ceremony he threw himself into a chair, and said abruptly: “Now, look here, Anne, how about this detective? Do you want him to come?”
“No,”
